


Adularescence

by boughofawillowtree



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Auctions, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bad Angel Michael (Good Omens), Captivity, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cults, Gabriel Being an Asshole (Good Omens), Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Religious Fanaticism, Slavery, Spiritual Abuse, Tattoos, Torture, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 73,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22988275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boughofawillowtree/pseuds/boughofawillowtree
Summary: When the archangels find out about Aziraphale's fraternizing with the demon Crowley, they draw all the wrong conclusions. It turns out that an underground group of powerful angels has been enslaving demons, and is trying to get all of Heaven to adopt the practice. Thinking that Aziraphale has successfully "tamed" Crowley, they induct him into their secret society that traffics in demon slaves. To keep himself and Crowley safe, Aziraphale must remain undercover as an apparent accomplice to all the cruelty, while plotting with Crowley to take the cabal down from the inside.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 347
Kudos: 609





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the tags, which will update as necessary. 
> 
> I live for comments, like we all do. Please let me know what you think, and thanks so much for sticking with me! You can also reach me on tumblr at @desperateground.
> 
> Any fanwork, including art, fics, moodboards, playlists, etc. are welcome.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is thrust into a strange underworld where Heavenly morality includes slavery and Gabriel is chummy with him. When he sees an abused demon being auctioned off, he buys him on impulse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since _Desperate Ground_ is coming to a close (watch for the epilogue this week - finally!) I'm starting on my next whump-fest of a longfic. I learned a ton writing DG, so consider this my "sophomore album."
> 
> Huge thanks to the kink meme discord for the encouragement and brainstorming for this AU, especially to @Meridians_of_Madness, @dreamsofspike and @ColorfulFlowersToo for beta-ing!

Aziraphale sighed and rubbed his forehead, staring down at the envelope in his hands. It had arrived on his doorstep a day before, but he had been unwilling to open it and thus ruin what was otherwise a near perfect day. He and Crowley had gone out for a sumptuous breakfast and spent the rest of the afternoon lounging in the sunny front room of the bookshop, taking turns performing the silliest of William’s sonnets and reminiscing about the young charmers who had inspired them. 

The year was 1987, and it was late springtime, with summer breathing hot down the year’s neck. At the beginning of the decade, Crowley and Aziraphale had finally shed their pretense of living as hereditary enemies and fallen into the sweet routines of lovers. Though Crowley still kept his apartment, the two spent the majority of their time in Aziraphale’s bookshop and adjoining flat, sharing lazy mornings and wine-soaked evenings. 

Though they had admitted openly to each other the true depth of their feelings, both remained circumspect with their respective employers. Content to remain under the radar, they sent reports back, deflected any concerns raised about their proximity to an adversary, and kept their affairs as private as possible. Which was no real trouble, given that their preferences were for each other’s company, ideally at a tucked-away restaurant table or in their own homes.

Still, it was a delicate balance, maintaining such a life on earth, knowing that a slip in judgment or just the eventual tides of luck could bring everything crashing down. And so Aziraphale had not wanted to open the letter after seeing Gabriel’s seal on it, knowing it contained news from Heaven that would most assuredly ruin his day at the very least. 

But it had already been over 24 hours, and he couldn’t put it off any longer. With Crowley gone from the apartment (likely haranguing his plants or raining misfortune down on the gaggles of foreign teenagers currently being shepherded around London in matching backpacks) Aziraphale sighed, steeled himself, and slipped his ivory letter opener into the envelope’s seam.

His brow furrowed as he read the short message. Though it was written in Gabriel’s thick and flowing script, its tone was far more collegial, bordering on cheerful, than any the archangel ever took with Aziraphale. It contained no scolding, no demands. It was simply an invitation to meet for a discussion the next afternoon. This itself was odd, given that Gabriel simply appeared whenever he wished to speak with Aziraphale, never going out of his way to request a time or show any respect for Aziraphale’s schedule.

Clearly, something was up. 

There was nothing for it, however, but to show up at the designated time and place. Aziraphale resolved not to tell Crowley about the strangeness of the meeting. Though he would let his beloved demon know he had a work-related appointment with the archangel, he knew that if there was any suspicion of it being a trap, Crowley would insist on attending with him and attempting to protect him from whatever Gabriel had planned.

Aziraphale wouldn’t allow Crowley to place himself in danger, so the next afternoon, he gave Crowley a quick and pleasant goodbye and a gentle kiss - praying as he left that it wouldn’t be his last opportunity to do so. 

Gabriel was waiting for him, as promised, at a tiny wrought-iron table tucked away in an alleyway next to a little tea shop. He smiled broadly as Aziraphale approached.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, standing to shake his hand. “A pleasure, as always.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Aziraphale said, trying to keep the stiffness out of his voice as he took the seat opposite Gabriel. 

“I bet you’re wondering why I called you here.” 

“I am always at the disposal of the revered archangels and the blessed workings of Heavenly plans.”

Gabriel laughed and waved his hand dismissively, but for once, his derision didn’t seem to be directed at Aziraphale. “Oh, you can drop the business-speak. I’m not here for work.”

“Is that so?” Aziraphale felt keenly the absence of a teacup to sip from, or any other outlet for the nervous energy that was about to overwhelm him.

“I gotta say,” Gabriel said, grinning, “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Pardon?”

Gabriel leaned forward conspiratorially. “I know your little secret.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard, too hard, his throat suddenly gravel. 

Gabriel continued. “I underestimated you. Thought you were too soft. But seeing you with that demon - I’ll admit, even I’m impressed.”

Aziraphale glanced around frantically, expecting to see a crew of angels appear to arrest him for his fraternizing crimes. “It’s not - it’s not what it looks like,” he sputtered, wracking his brain for the right defense.

“You don’t have to worry,” Gabriel said with a small laugh. “Trust me, it’s not as uncommon as you think.”

Aziraphale’s head was spinning. “It isn’t?”

“Nope!” Gabriel seemed quite satisfied with himself. “Bet you thought you were the only one. And you were smart to hide it, given the misunderstandings some of the Host can be prone to - but there are some of us who share your views. No shame about it, not among friends.”

All Aziraphale could do was choke out startled questions. “Friends?”

“Those of us who have it figured out. Obviously we can’t go around trumpeting about it - not yet, at least. Too many angels are still, let’s say,  _ confused _ about the true order of things. What demons really are. What the Great Plan offers us, and what it asks of us.”

“I hadn’t realized that relations between demons and angels were part of the Great Plan,” Aziraphale said, dazed.

At that, Gabriel dissolved into roaring laughter. “Relations!” he cried, wiping a tear from his eye. “Oh, Aziraphale, that’s a good one. You always were one for a turn of phrase. _ Relations. _ I’ll have to tell that to the guys.”

Aziraphale had never felt more lost, not even when he’d tried to meet Crowley on some far-off star and gotten turned around between two nebulas that both looked equally un-horse-like. 

“It is a shame,” Gabriel continued, “that those enlightened among us have to resort to such euphemisms. Some day, all of Heaven will come around, and we can be open about something that should be an honorable practice.”

It was a good thing that Gabriel loved to hear himself talk, because Aziraphale couldn’t begin to fathom how he might respond to the bizarre things the archangel was saying. It was clear that he had missed a great deal of context, and was clinging on to the barest edges of this conversation. It was also clear that to reveal such confusion would doom him, and that his continued safety rested entirely on Gabriel’s perception of him as a friend. 

“Indeed,” was all Aziraphale said.

“I have to ask, though,” Gabriel said, lowering his voice. “How’d you do it? On your own, I mean.”

“Er,” Aziraphale stammered. “I’m really not sure I should…”

“Of course.” Gabriel winked. “A gentleman always keeps his methods close. I should have known there was a good reason you collected all those human books. Found a spell or ancient binding, I bet.”

Aziraphale coughed, which Gabriel took as an oblique assent.

“But let me assure you, we share and share alike. Let me bring you to a little event we’re hosting - invite only - and you’ll see how the rest of us are getting on.”

“Oh, that’s no trouble, I couldn’t possibly-”

“Nonsense,” Gabriel said, reaching over to clap Aziraphale on the shoulder. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at 9, earth time. You could even bring your demon, if you wanted. He seems so well behaved, from what I’ve seen.”

Whatever Gabriel was about to drag Aziraphale into, he knew that Crowley should be kept as far from it as possible. “No, just me.”

“Ah. Still not trained for public - don’t worry, it takes a while. Sandalphon had one that didn’t tame for nearly five hundred years. I can introduce you to some folks with good techniques. Maybe next time, he’ll be ready and you can show him off a bit.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said. This was sounding darker by the minute, and he wanted nothing more than to extricate himself from the conversation with immediacy. 

“See you tomorrow,” Gabriel said, rising from the table. “Wear something dapper - though I rarely see you in anything but, so that shouldn’t be an issue.”

“Thanks.” Gabriel had never complimented Aziraphale before, and he wasn’t sure what to make of the archangel’s new fraternal behavior. As the two left the alleyway together, Gabriel placed one arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and leaned in for a goodbye. 

“I’ve gotta say, Aziraphale, I’m proud of you. I don’t know whether She Herself spoke to you, or whether you opened your eyes to this aspect of the Great Plan on your own, but either way, I see that you have the faith, the will, and the power to take on a difficult but necessary challenge. I owe you an apology for always assuming otherwise.”

Aziraphale forced himself to smile. “I appreciate that.”

“It can be a lonely path, being one of the few who sees the truth that so many deny. I can’t imagine how alone you must have felt - but you’re not on your own anymore. And we’re glad to have you.”

With that dizzyingly bizarre remark, Gabriel clapped Aziraphale once more on the back, then vanished.

Aziraphale walked back home, his head spinning with everything Gabriel had said. Sandalphon. Demons. Training. Tamed. Great Plan. 

On the one hand, it seemed that he was not in any sort of trouble for his connection to Crowley, which was a small relief. On the other hand, it was obvious that Gabriel had terribly misread things, and that Aziraphale was about to be dragged into something he wanted no part in.

One thing was for certain, however, which was that Aziraphale could not allow Crowley to be similarly caught up, at least not until he had a better sense for what was going on. He hated to lie, and he knew that Crowley would be quite wounded by it, but there seemed to be no better option.

Aziraphale focused on pulling himself out of the daze Gabriel had left him in as he saw his building come into view. If Crowley sensed that he was upset, there’d be no shaking his suspicion.

“How was your meeting with the great wanker?” Crowley asked when Aziraphale finally wandered into the bookshop.

“Fine,” Aziraphale said, sinking onto the sofa. “Same as always.”

“What did he say?”

“A whole lot of nothing, as usual.” Aziraphale sighed. “What a waste of an afternoon. Would much rather have been with you.”

“Well I’m glad I rank higher than the archangel Gabriel for your company,” Crowley teased, hopping onto the sofa alongside Aziraphale.

“Never a contest,” Aziraphale replied, pulling Crowley close to him. “But I do have to join him again for yet another blasted meeting tomorrow night.”

Crowley groaned. “Really, angel, I don’t know how you can stand it.”

“They say patience is a virtue, but I doubt  _ they _ ever had to listen to Gabriel prattle on about miracle allotment and blessing forms.”

“Can’t you beg off?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Seems rather...important.”

Crowley flopped against the sofa dramatically. “Leave me all on my lonesome, why don’t you.”

Aziraphale ruffled the demon’s hair. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

He hoped the same was true of himself.

  
  


***

When Gabriel came to pick Aziraphale up the next evening, he was dressed sharply in a charcoal suit with a lavender tie and pocket square. Aziraphale had gotten out his dress uniform, which he feared might be a bit dated for today’s Heavenly atmosphere, but Gabriel didn’t say anything about it.

“Hey, buddy,” Gabriel said with a wide grin when Aziraphale opened the door. The archangel leaned to one side, trying to peer over Aziraphale’s shoulder into the bookshop. “Where’s your pet?”

Revulsion shuddered through Aziraphale at Gabriel’s choice of words. “He’s upstairs.”

“Of course,” Gabriel said, sounding a bit disappointed. “Best to be careful when leaving them alone.”

Aziraphale made a terse sound of assent, then closed the door behind him. Crowley was in fact nowhere near the bookshop that night. Aziraphale had sent him home, having decided that, if this was indeed part of a plan to separate them and capture Crowley, he would be safer in his well-warded apartment.

“I didn’t bring any of mine tonight, either,” Gabriel continued as they walked. “Figured I ought to keep my eye on you, help show you around. I have two. You’ll get to see them soon, I hope.”

“Uh huh.” The notion that Gabriel kept two demons in his Heavenly quarters was nearly impossible for Aziraphale to believe. 

Gabriel walked him to a side entrance of Heaven, one Aziraphale rarely took. They headed through empty corridors and down a flight of sparkling stairs before reaching a door Aziraphale had never seen before. Carved into the white marble was a strange symbol made of intersecting lines that seemed to represent the facets of a crystal. 

Gabriel tugged up one of his sleeves to reveal a watch, which was studded with two diamond-like gems. He held it up to the symbol and the door slid open.

They stepped inside and Aziraphale’s eyes blinked rapidly, adjusting to the sudden darkness. The light here was dim, almost intimate. They were in a large room lined with booths and tables, with a tall dais in the center. Angels, all dressed in finery, stood around, and the room was full of the low hum of friendly chatter. 

But what really startled Aziraphale were the other beings in the room. Almost every angel was accompanied by at least one demon. Most looked as humanoid as Crowley did during his earthly dealings, but a few had their wings exposed, or showed more of their animal aspects.

Some were dressed in plain robes and gowns. Others were nude, or nearly so. Some were chained or collared. Some knelt or crawled while others stood at attention next to an angel. None of them were speaking. 

Aziraphale thought he recognized one demon, tall and heavyset, who had a sprinkling of shiny fish scales over his cheeks like freckles, their pattern disappearing below a grotesque looking muzzle. Another demon, with iridescent green wings like a hummingbird’s and a long, delicate neck to match, stood perfectly still while a handful of angels looked over her nude form, occasionally reaching out to touch her.

Aziraphale might have stared, frozen, forever - but a yelp shocked him out of it and he turned toward the sound. An angel he knew as a General of the Host had a demon by the neck and was scolding them harshly, punctuating his words with slaps to the demon’s face. 

Aziraphale could hardly take in the sight, and the horrors that it forced him to realize, when Gabriel took him by the arm and steered him toward the archangel Michael.

“Michael!” Gabriel greeted her enthusiastically, a kiss in the air next to both cheeks. Dangling from Michael’s earlobe were three gold hoops, each one fitted with a clear gem identical to those on Gabriel’s watch.

Michael looked down her nose at Aziraphale. “What is he doing here?”

“Relax,” Gabriel said in his grating American accent. “He’s with me. I found out he’s got himself a demon - figured it out all on his own. Thought I oughta introduce him around, show him how it’s done.”

“Really,” Michael sniffed with an air of grudging respect. “Well, welcome, principality.”

“It’s an honor,” Aziraphale said. He was determined not to be so caught off guard again like he was during his initial conversation with Gabriel. He had practiced maintaining a steadfast and casual attitude, and would not put himself or Crowley at risk by betraying his own mood.

“Michael has three,” Gabriel explained, “but she only brought one tonight.” He nodded toward the demon standing just behind Michael.

Aziraphale took in the sight, having no other response. The demon’s eyes were bright pale green, like new spring buds, and their hair was cropped so short Aziraphale could not tell its color. Through their lips, pierced so that they could not speak, were two gold rings. They wore a gold collar attached to a delicate chain, the end of which Michael held in her hand, and a plain white blouse over brown trousers that shimmered with gold threads. They were barefoot.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Aziraphale murmured. The demon bowed their head.

Michael looked irritated for a moment, then Gabriel cracked up. “He’s a riot, I’m telling you!  _ Pleasure to meet you _ . Really, Aziraphale. That’s almost better than ‘relations.’ Come on, I’ll show you around.”

Glad to be away from Michael, Aziraphale followed Gabriel as he joined a small cluster of angels who were engaged in conversation that stopped as soon as the archangel appeared. 

“Gabriel!” 

“Good to see ya!”

Handshakes and back-claps were exchanged, and Gabriel introduced Aziraphale to his friends, whose names rushed by in a blur. The only one whose name he caught was Nephriel, who wore two tight buns at the back of her head and angular glasses. A stocky demon, wearing only loose black trousers and an iron collar, knelt at her feet. All of the angels had at least one demon with them, but no one gave Aziraphale their names. 

“We haven’t had anyone new join in far too long,” Nephriel said, smiling at Aziraphale. “And you picked a good one to bring him to,” she said, turning to Gabriel.

“Oh?” Gabriel tilted his head. “What’s happening tonight?”

“You don’t know!?” The angels sounded nearly giddy. “You know that one Sandalphon has been working on for almost fifty years? She’ll be here tonight, getting her shard.”

“No way!” Gabriel’s enthusiasm made Aziraphale’s stomach turn. He forced the feeling down. “I thought he’d never bag that one.”

“Well, he did. Sprung a trap using some backchannels, managed to get some blessed chains on her.”

Another angel spoke up. “Heard she’s been a terror ever since.”

“Ah,” Gabriel waved his hand. “She’ll be fine after tonight.” 

Aziraphale had so many questions, but he knew he had to play them off as the inquisitive eagerness of a newcomer rather than the interrogation of an enemy.

“Shard?”

All the angels turned to look at him. Nephriel spoke first. “You’ll see soon enough. You’re very lucky - it doesn’t happen often.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale was not looking forward to whatever he was about to witness.

“Come to think of it,” Gabriel said, “We should get yours a shard soon, too. It’s the only way to truly subdue a demon. I don’t know what you’ve been using, but it’s better to be safe. And shards show them that their station is determined by God Herself.”

The gathered angels murmured in reverent agreement. Aziraphale noticed their demons shifting nervously, though no one was paying any attention to them. 

The angels looked at him with wide eyes. “You have one without a shard?” asked one. “Is that safe?”

“I’d never let one near me,” agreed another. 

“We all know there are other ways to control a demon - just none so powerful or permanent as a shard.” Gabriel nudged Aziraphale playfully. “This guy, he’s been collecting ancient human texts. I used to think it was just some kind of soft-headed gluttony, but you know, there are plenty of bindings and spells out there.”

“What’re you using?”

“Oh, uh,” Aziraphale demurred, looking helplessly at Gabriel. 

“He’s keeping his secrets for now,” Gabriel interjected. 

The angels seemed disappointed, but Gabriel assured them that he’d share his methods eventually, once he got more comfortable. Aziraphale had never been happier to let Gabriel speak for him.

As the angels continued to talk amongst themselves, Aziraphale let himself lapse back into silence. He hoped to appear as an interested but shy newcomer, but truth be told, he was so distracted by the enslaved demons - for he now fully grasped the reality of this strange underworld - that he hardly heard what the angels were saying.

His eyes fell on Nephriel’s demon, still kneeling on the floor, head bowed. Since he was shirtless, Aziraphale could see scars and still-healing lashes across his shoulders and chest. One eye was swollen shut with a purple bruise. In addition to his collar, heavy metal shackles encircled both wrists. 

Aziraphale had only just wrenched his eyes from the poor creature when a commotion from one side of the room caught everyone’s attention. Almost instantly, all conversation stopped, and bubbling excitement filled the room. 

“It’s happening,” whispered Gabriel. “Let’s get you a good spot.”

They moved with the crowd toward the raised platform in the center of the room, and someone pushed Aziraphale forward so he had an unobstructed view. Gabriel was no longer by his side, and he couldn’t see the archangel when he scanned the crowd. With no better option, Aziraphale turned his attention back toward the motion at the edge of the room..

He saw Sandalphon and two other angels struggling to pull a huge demon, who was wrapped in chains and thrashing mightily. She had rippling muscles, reddish skin, and two sharp horns on her head. The demon snarled and stamped and snorted, fighting every step of the way. 

The crowd shouted and jeered. Aziraphale overheard someone say that they finally understood why Sandalphon had been so committed to capturing this one. All he could do was watch, hating himself for his own impotence, a silent witness to the cruelty unfolding before him.

Anguish was so obvious on the demon’s face, and in her desperate struggles, that Aziraphale had to quickly brush tears from his eyes and grit his teeth to keep from succumbing to the misery of it all.

Finally, the three angels maneuvered the great demon onto the dais and forced her to her knees, securing the chains to its floor. Then, the crowd hushed reverently as four more angels - including Gabriel and Michael - approached. Together, they were carrying a box made of intricate silver and gold latticework.

Each of the angels pulled out an ornate key and set it in a latch, turned simultaneously, and opened the box. Aziraphale gasped.

Inside was a massive crystal of Yatsarite, glittering like a newborn star. It was at once clear as spring water, while also shining with every color under the sun. He realized that the small gems he’d seen other angels wearing were of the same substance.

Aziraphale had never actually been in the presence of Yatsarite. In fact, he had suspected it was either a myth, or had long ago ceased to exist. The gem - often called Creation Stone - was said by angels to be the very first substance of Creation, the source of all God’s cosmos. It preceded both angels and demons, and was the spark of their very existence, and as such contained divine magics that surpassed the powers of any created being. 

And here it was, in the possession of some secret cabal of angels Aziraphale still only half understood. He fought down a new wave of tears, both at the glory of the stone and the apparent perversion of its use.

Michael produced a silver hammer and tapped gently on the stone until a small bit of crystal fell away into her hand. The crowd watched, quiet, as she handed it to Sandalphon. 

Standing over his captive demon, Sandalphon held the crystal in one hand and grabbed the demon’s hair with the other, yanking her head back. 

“Open your mouth,” he commanded. Aziraphale winced. The demon shook her head, glaring.

Sandalphon then employed a brutal application of force, twisting the blessed chains and prying the demon’s mouth open as she fought. He set the stone between her teeth.

“Bite down,” he said, again underscoring his demand with what Aziraphale could only define as torture.

Finally, there was a sickening crack. The demon howled, blood dripping from her shattered teeth, and Sandalphon took the crystal back into his hand, wiping the blood from it. He held it up to the crowd: Aziraphale could see that the gem itself was now shot through with fracture lines, and a smaller, needle-sharp piece had broken off. 

Sandalphon handed the larger gem to one of the angels onstage, who took out a pair of pliers and some bright silver wire and began to set the stone. While she did that, Sandalphon turned to the crowd and held the shining sliver between his fingers, raising his arm so that all could see.

“This is the substance of all Creation, preserved for us by Her Almighty Providence,” he intoned. “Contained within the sacred gem is the power and dominion over all created beings, least among them the Fallen.” 

Aziraphale could tell by the flatness in Sandalphon’s voice that this was a memorized speech, some kind of ritualized language. 

“This crystal symbolizes the truth of our holiness, and the calling of the Great Plan. For in its discovery do we recognize its purpose. She revealed it to those whose eyes were opened to the true order of Creation, and we wield its magics to enforce and promote this order.”

He turned to the demon, who was looking up at him with furious hatred in her eyes.

“By the reception of this shard, you, Fallen one, come under the righteous command of Her Heavenly Host. As was ordained and as shall be, until the day comes when all legions of the damned are subdued through the holy will and power of the Creation stone. Amen.”

The crowd repeated his final word. 

The other two angels took hold of the demon’s heaving shoulders, held her still. Then Sandalphon set the pointed edge of the crystal piece against the demon’s skin at the base of her neck.

The room was silent, reverberating with tense anticipation. Aziraphale risked a glance around and saw that every demon in the room looked nervous, some visibly trembling. All were averting their gaze while the angels watched the show unfolding with hunger in their eyes.

Sandalphon then pushed, driving the glass-like splinter into the demon’s body. The silence broke as the demon screamed - a piercing sound of such anguish Aziraphale could hardly endure, and which he imagined must have rivaled the cries of those newly Fallen - and the assembled angels shouted and clapped. Once the shard had fully disappeared under the skin, the demon collapsed, looking almost paralyzed.

The ritual apparently having been completed, the crowd began talking again, a loud roar in Aziraphale’s ears. Aziraphale watched, frozen, as another angel took some kind of silver instrument and began tattooing what looked like a circular sigil around the spot where the shard was now embedded in the demon’s flesh. The demon had stopped fighting, and was limp and quivering as the tattooist worked. 

“Pretty impressive, huh?” Gabriel was again next to Aziraphale, a hand heavy on his shoulder. 

“Yes,” was all Aziraphale could say. 

They wanted to do this to Crowley. Worse, they thought Aziraphale wanted to do this to Crowley. He didn’t think he would last much longer in this place. 

Gabriel started to say something when they were interrupted by Nephriel, who was dragging her battered demon behind her and looking annoyed. 

“Just came to say bye,” she said.

“You’re leaving already? I think there are a few sales tonight, you’re going to miss them.”

“I know,” she sighed, then jerked her head toward the demon stumbling miserably beside her. “But  _ someone _ let themselves get upset by the shard ceremony and couldn’t follow directions, so we need to head home.”

Aziraphale did not miss the demon’s terrified quaking. He tried not to think about what awaited the poor thing as Nephriel told him it was great to meet him, and that she looked forward to seeing him again. He muddled through an agreeable goodbye and watched her leave. 

“Well, that’s a shame. At least you’ll get to stay for the sale. They’re fun to watch, even if I’m not at all in the market. Come on.”

Aziraphale let himself be dumbly led back toward the dais, where an angel wearing a monocle and a hat that had been out of fashion for a few centuries, as well as a severely trimmed beard, took the stage and announced the beginning of an auction. 

“We have three lots up tonight, and though Sandalphon’s excellent new addition isn’t one of them, there should be plenty to please.”

Aziraphale did not appreciate being lumped in with those who were  _ pleased _ by the offering up of other beings for sale. But he held his tongue.

First, there was a meek looking demon with straw-blond hair and rose pink eyes, who wore a gossamer gown of sheer pale blue fabric. The auctioneer informed the crowd that her animal aspect was a deer, and that she was a skilled dancer. “There are no known behavioral problems with this one,” the auctioneer stated proudly, “and she has had her shard for nearly two thousand years.”

Aziraphale tried to imagine the effect that  _ two millennia  _ of such bondage might have on one’s will, one’s spirit, the very self. He could hardly fathom it. 

“Ones like this don’t come up for sale that often,” he continued. “Her current owner recently acquired two new demons, who I hear are too rough with her. One so well broken would be an excellent addition to another’s collection.”

The crowd seemed to agree, as bidding shot up immediately to what Aziraphale knew was a hefty percentage of most angel’s celestial wages. It appeared that many angels were also bidding in “favors,” which Gabriel explained meant the lending of their own demons as payment.

Finally, the deer demon was sold, and stepped gracefully down from the dais to her new owner. Aziraphale watched her move, awed by her total submission. The auctioneer handed a rose gold ring set with a piece of Yastrite to the angel who had purchased her, and the angel slipped it on with a smile. 

“This next one will be a bit more of a challenge,” the auctioneer said, “but don’t we just love those?” 

The crowd cheered. 

“Caught less than a century ago by our very own Michael, this one has recently been deemed fit for sale. Newly captured ones aren’t for the inexperienced, but they provide many opportunities to serve our God as She has called us to the dominion over Hell. Who is ready to be this one’s very first owner?”

The auctioneer gestured with a showman’s charm to the demon being led to the dais. They were olive-skinned with round dark eyes. They wore nothing but simple leather cuffs with a matching collar. Unlike the previous demon, this one looked anxious, eyeing the crowd with suspicion before darting their gaze downwards. Aziraphale could see them fighting the urge to run, their toes tapping and fingers fidgeting.

Again, the bidding started as soon as the auctioneer opened, and soon this demon was sold as well. But when the winning angel approached to take the demon and their accompanying stone, the demon couldn’t restrain themselves much longer. 

“No!” they cried, and turned to flee. The auctioneer held out his arm, fist closed around an object Aziraphale knew must have been the demon’s gem, and glared at the disobedient demon.

Instantly, the demon fell to their knees, shouting and writhing. The auctioneer calmly handed the stone over to the angel, who reached down and grabbed the demon, hauling them roughly to their feet. The demon continued to struggle and kick, but seemed weakened by whatever the auctioneer had done, and the crowd clapped raucously as they were removed from the dais. 

“Never a dull moment, not with new ones,” the auctioneer joked, and the angel raised a triumphant thumbs up, having successfully overpowered the demon, who had gone quiet and still, though Aziraphale could see their shoulders shaking.

“This last lot may be familiar to some - he’s been on the block three times in as many centuries.” The gathered angels groaned. “I know, I know,” the auctioneer said. “Behavioral problems, bad habits, plenty of need for discipline. But he should go cheap, so why not take a risk?”

This demon, small in stature and wearing a plain robe, wasn’t led to the dais so much as he was dumped onto it by a very annoyed looking angel. Instead of standing for the judgment of the potential buyers, he lay in a heap on the floor, hiding behind his wings. The sight rent Aziraphale’s heart worse than anything he’d seen so far. 

Aziraphale stood on his tiptoes for a better look at the little demon. His wings were out, looking tattered and worn. They were a mottled grey, flecked with every shade of the color, from near-white to almost-black. His hair was a pale, near-silvery blonde, pulled back in a long braid that hung down over one shoulder. His robe was open in the back, revealing a raised scar surrounded by a sigil tattoo.

Gabriel sighed and shook his head. “What a mess. I hear he’s nothing but aggravation.”

The crowd had started to thin, pockets of conversation starting back up. Though the auction had opened, no one was bidding.

Aziraphale didn’t realize he was talking until he heard the words out of his own mouth. “May I get a closer look?”

The auctioneer motioned him over, and Aziraphale walked up to the edge of the dais, eye level with the prostrate demon.

Aziraphale leaned forward, hoping to speak softly to the demon. “What’s your name?”

The demon lifted his wing and looked warily at Aziraphale. His eyes were a cool, deep grey, like stones on a river’s shore. His lips were thin, pulled tight with something that looked like hateful resignation. One of his hands was curled in a fist below his chin, and Aziraphale saw raw, torn flesh where it seemed he’d been chewing his fingers.

He did not speak.

Aziraphale wanted to ask, again, for his name, but found himself unable to do anything but hold the demon’s gaze, which seemed both distant and piercing.

“Well?” The auctioneer prodded. “You gonna make a bid or what?”

“Oh no, Aziraphale,” Gabriel cut in. “You don’t want that one - he’s got problems, trust me. And you only just got started with yours, who doesn’t even have a shard yet. Best to leave it be.”

“Don’t talk him out of it, Gabriel,” said the bearded angel. “I’d be so glad to be rid of this one.”

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, his voice full of patience tinged with some condescension. “You’re new to this - don’t get in over your head.”

It was unfathomable to Aziraphale that he would consider  _ purchasing a demon slave _ \- and he knew he ought to simply listen to Gabriel - but something about the small demon broke Aziraphale’s heart open, and he had to do something. He would rescue this one, take him home and away from this terrible place. And then he would figure it out from there.

“I want him.” Aziraphale squared his shoulders and looked straight into the eyes of the angel selling him. “How much?”

“You got one already? I’d take it once a month for a thousand years.”

Gabriel nodded. “That’s cheap - a good deal.”

Aziraphale fought back the urge to leap at this angel, rain down righteous fury on him. There was no way he would hand over Crowley to this sadist, this trafficker in flesh and pain, not for one instant. “No, I’d prefer not to. He’s - he’s not, er, he’s not ready for that.”

“Seven hundred years, then.”

“I’m sorry, I must clarify - I don’t wish to bargain.” Aziraphale instead offered a sizable chunk of his celestial wages - enough that, were he to ever return to Heaven, he’d do so as a pauper. 

Not that he had any intention of doing so.

The auctioneer shrugged. “Sure.”

The demon was pulled offstage and made to stand beside Aziraphale. He tucked his wings in close, the edge of one fingernail in his mouth.

“Stop that,” the auctioneer said, and smacked the demon’s hand away. “How many times have I told you? Disgusting.” He looked at Aziraphale and rolled his eyes apologetically. “Good luck with this one.”

Gabriel helped Aziraphale through the transaction, which included a handful of contracts to sign and a short description of the demon’s history and “known behavioral issues” as well as “well-proven training methods.” 

“What’s his name?” Aziraphale finally asked, having looked for it through all the paperwork without success.

The auctioneer seemed surprised. “Don’t know. Most don’t like to let them keep their demonic names. You can call it whatever you want.”

“Right.” Aziraphale debated whether to press the issue now, or try to get the demon to share his name later. He decided to drop it, though he hated to be in such an intimate arrangement with someone and not even know his name.

Finally, the auctioneer placed in Aziraphale’s hand a gemstone, which he now recognized as Yatsarite, in a golden setting and hanging from a gold chain. It truly was beautiful, as Aziraphale held it in his hand, turning it reverently to catch the light. The interior shatter lines made it iridescent, a collection of overlapping prisms that sparkled like nothing he’d ever seen before.

“That’s the piece his shard came from,” Gabriel explained. “Whoever holds it holds sway over the demon with the shard.”

“How does it work?”

“No one’s really sure,” Gabriel said, “but it exerts your will and the demon can’t resist. He can’t harm you, he can’t escape, all that. Can’t use any of his demonic powers. And if you channel your grace into the stone, you can control him in more specific ways, but that takes effort, so you can’t do it all the time. Best to use it for training and punishments, mostly.”

Aziraphale nodded and slipped the stone into his pocket. He wanted to get home as soon as possible, but couldn’t give the game away now that he’d gotten himself in so deep. “How much longer does this last?”

Gabriel laughed. “Can’t wait to get home and play with your new toy, huh?”

Aziraphale felt that his old friend William would have been impressed with the acting skills he then employed. He blushed, smiling sheepishly. “Well it isn’t every day one acquires such a lovely specimen.”

“There’s plenty of fun to be had by staying,” Gabriel said. “Show him around, get some practice in training - could even get him pierced or marked up. Some angels brand with their name, and you saw how Michael keeps hers.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Aziraphale said, then caught himself, softening his tone. “At least, not - not yet. I’d like to get a good look at him first.”

“Of course, naturally.”

“How, er, how does one...how would I transport him?”

Gabriel pointed at the stone Aziraphale still held. “You’ve got full power over him now. Just miracle him back with you. You can borrow a cage if you want, to take him in.”

“No, thank you.” Aziraphale gripped the stone tightly and looked at the demon -  _ his _ demon, though the thought was beyond revolting - then raised his other hand and snapped his fingers.

***

They were in the living room of the bookshop, the demon standing in a hunched, sullen posture, his wings wrapped around himself.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Aziraphale soothed. “You’re safe now, it’s okay.”

The demon peeked at him through the scraggly feathers of his wing, then immediately looked away.

“Sit down, please, do sit down.” Aziraphale fussed at the sofa, moving pillows out of the way and finding a soft blanket he was prepared to wrap around the demon’s body. 

Instead, the demon fell hard into a seated position on the floor, his hands clasped in his lap, his neck bowed.

“Oh - oh, oh no.” Aziraphale wondered whether to insist upon the sofa, or whether pressing his will on any point - even the demon’s comfort - would make things worse. He decided to sit down on the floor, facing the demon, trying to establish some kind of connection. “I’m not going to harm you,” Aziraphale said gently after a moment of silence. “My name is Aziraphale. Please, would you tell me your name?”

The demon sat, silent and still. Aziraphale could see his jaw, clenched tight with fear. His fingers twisted together, one nail picking at another. 

He wished for nothing more than a way to calm the demon, to show him that he was a friend, not some cruel master. 

Then Aziraphale remembered what Gabriel had said about the Creation Stone, how he could channel his grace through it into the demon’s shard.

He reached into his pocket and closed his hand around the little gem, then focused on letting his peace, his affection, his hope, flow through. He felt such a strong desire for the little demon to realize his intentions, to open up enough to let himself be cared for.

“It’s alright, I won’t hurt you. I just want to know your name.”

Then the demon’s face changed, muscles contorting, lips twisting. One word, spoken as if it had been wrenched from his throat against his will: “Valen.”

Aziraphale’s gladness at hearing the name was instantly eclipsed by his shock as he realized that he had somehow forced himself onto the demon, had dragged obedience out of him by use of the stone. He let go of it and yanked his hand from his pocket. 

“I’m sorry, oh dear,” he said, resisting the urge to reach out and touch Valen, knowing it would not be nearly as comforting as he intended. “I didn’t mean to - I am sorry. But thank you. It is nice to meet you, Valen.”

Valen’s eyes were shut tight, and Aziraphale saw a tear glisten on his cheek. Clearly, he had made a terrible mistake. What a fool, starting things out with such a violation. He wanted to cry himself. 

Aziraphale was trying to think of a way to redeem the situation, to demonstrate that he was an ally, and he was also cursing himself, and Gabriel, and the whole mess he’d been dragged into. He was wondering how to get that awful shard out of Valen, and what on earth he ought to do with the stone that conferred him ‘ownership’ of the demon.

Then he heard the front door opening, and Crowley calling his name.

Was it that time already? Aziraphale had forgotten entirely that Crowley intended to return later that night, that they had planned to drink away the boredom of what Crowley believed was a dry angelic meeting. 

Aziraphale spun around, half standing, to see Crowley in the doorway, a bottle of wine in one hand, a stunned look on his face as he stared at the grey-winged demon on the floor.

  
“Aziraphale, what -  _ who _ \- is  _ that _ ?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley comes home to discover that Aziraphale has stumbled into a secret slave-owning society and accidentally acquired himself an enslaved demon. Crowley is not pleased, but does his best to help Valen settle in.

Aziraphale stood between Crowley and Valen, trying to come up with an explanation. “Well, he’s, er, you see, he’s - it’s so nice to see you Crowley, do come in.”

Crowley closed the door behind him and miracled the wine bottle onto the table, but did not move further into the room. “Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale ran a hand through his hair and exhaled, grasping for an explanation. “He’s - he’s here, he’s staying with us for a bit. As a houseguest. He’s a demon.”

“Yes.” Crowley took a step forward and bent down, cocking his head to get a better look. “I see that.”

Valen, at the sound of Crowley’s footsteps and voice, lifted his head briefly. His eyes widened when he saw Crowley, and Aziraphale saw surprise and sorrow flicker across the demon’s face.

“I know you,” Crowley said, pointing. “I know you. What is it? Vazel?”

“Valen,” Aziraphale supplied.

Crowley snapped his fingers in recognition. “Valen. That’s right.” He got closer to Valen, still leaning over. “Haven’t seen you since, what, the turn of the 17th century?”

“1602,” Valen whispered.

Aziraphale couldn’t suppress his gasp, then. Valen had been held captive by the angels for nearly four hundred years. It did not escape his notice as well that the little demon seemed more willing to speak to Crowley.

“What are you doing here?” Crowley snapped, now looming over Valen’s small form. 

Valen looked up at Crowley, then over to Aziraphale, as if he held the answer. 

“Angel,” Crowley said, sounding very concerned. “How did he get in here? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Aziraphale huffed. “He - he’s here as my guest, like I told you. Here, do sit down, let me explain.”

“A guest? Aziraphale, it’s not safe - you can’t just go letting demons in, they’re not to be trusted.”

“I trust you,” Aziraphale said pointedly.

“That’s not - you know that’s different. Look, first Gabriel starts sending you letters and setting weird meetings, and now there’s some demon in the bookshop. Something is up.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale took a seat on the couch and patted the spot next to him, carefully giving Valen plenty of space. “That much is very clear. Please, sit with me.”

Crowley grudgingly obliged, keeping his suspicious glare on Valen the entire time. Valen, for his part, had tucked his wings back and straightened his posture, and had begun to stare with horror and astonishment at Crowley.

Aziraphale shifted in his seat, craning his neck toward the kitchen. “Shall I put the kettle on first?”

“Angel.” Crowley’s impatience was obvious. “Start talking.”

“Well, it seems - I mean, it appears to be the case that - if one were to, I suppose, define the situation in the most explicit terms -”

“ _ Aziraphale. _ ”

“I purchased him.”

“Come again?”

Aziraphale then explained, in halting and fluttering sentences, what had transpired: from Gabriel’s strange revelation to the secret party and the heartbreaking scenes of demon slaves condemned to an eternity of subjugation. He was uncomfortably aware of Valen sitting just a few feet away, overhearing everything, but unable or unwilling to offer any of his own input.

Once he was finished, Crowley’s mouth was agape, his eyes nearly disbelieving. “It can’t be - it’s some kind of trick. They’re trying to - to trap you, catch us, or something.”

“I’m afraid not, dear.” Aziraphale gestured softly toward Valen’s small form, unmoving. “It all seems terribly real.”

Crowley exhaled, then rested his elbows on his knees, hanging his head. “So what do we do?”

Aziraphale had not exactly thought that far. But he was certain they had to do something. “For now, I suppose, we ought to see after him, and - er - to ensure that the angels continue to labor under the assumption that you…” - here Aziraphale trailed off into near-inaudible mumbling - “...are my subservient captive.”

“That I’m  _ what? _ ”

Hearing Crowley raise his voice at Aziraphale seemed to trigger something in Valen, who scrambled backwards, away from the couple, and curled into a tiny ball on the floor, his arms wrapped around his head.

Feeling the situation spinning out of his control, Aziraphale wrung his hands and lowered his voice. “It’s the only way to keep you safe! I’m sorry, Crowley - this is all so strange, and foul, and I hardly know how to proceed.”

“So much for the wine-and-whine plans we had for this evening,” Crowley muttered.

“I do apologize.”

“And what are we going to do about him?” Crowley waved in the direction of the huddled Valen. “He can’t just lie on the floor all night.”

“You frightened him!”

Crowley clapped a hand over his heart. “Me? I’m not the one who bought him and put him in an old bookshop.”

“What would you have me do, Crowley?”

_ “Now _ he asks for my input.” Crowley got up from the couch and grabbed the bottle of wine from the small table he’d set it on. “I’m gonna put this in the kitchen,” he said, and disappeared.

Aziraphale slid from the sofa and tried again to coax Valen out of his defensive posture. “Dear? May I show you to your room?”

At that, Valen stood, though his face was a mask of terror. He clasped his hands behind his back.

“We’re going to go upstairs,” Aziraphale pointed to the stairs. “Okay?”

Valen started to follow him, taking stiff little steps. Crowley wandered back into the room, though he kept his distance.

“This is Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “He lives here with me. He will help me look after you. He is a demon, like you. He is kind, and you are safe with him.”

Seemingly unable to take his eyes off Crowley, Valen followed Aziraphale upstairs. The trio stopped in the doorway of a long-unused guest bedroom, which Aziraphale tidied up with a quick miracle. Valen flinched at the snapping fingers. Crowley raised his eyebrows.

“You can stay here,” Aziraphale said, ushering Valen into the bedroom without touching him. “Of course, you’re welcome to the whole flat. Do you enjoy food or drink? I can fix you something in the kitchen.”

Valen shook his head timidly.

“Would you like to change? I can provide you with any clothing that you would like.”

“He can miracle them himself,” Crowley said irritably.

Aziraphale scratched the back of his neck, avoiding Crowley’s gaze. “He can’t, as a matter of fact. His powers are...suppressed.”

Valen’s face crumpled with shame and he began to bite into one of his fingers again. Crowley looked astonished and more than a bit repulsed.

Aziraphale snapped again, and a squat chest of drawers appeared. “There should be plenty in there - choose whatever you find comfortable, alright?”

Valen nodded. 

“We’ll leave you to settle in,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll be around if you need anything - you can find us in the kitchen. I’ll come by in a bit to see how you’re doing.”

Valen just stood, chewing ferociously on his index finger, and watched with wide grey eyes as the two left.

“You sure he can be left alone?” Crowley whispered as they made their way down the hall.

“I’m not sure of anything,” Aziraphale said. “But I don’t think my presence is much help to him at the moment. Poor dear, he thinks I’m just another angel like the ones he’s lived with before.”

“Lived with - you mean  _ belonged to _ , angel.”

“Yes.” In the kitchen, Aziraphale started filling the kettle. “These other angels, Gabriel’s friends - there is no kindness there, for demons. I imagine he’s been through all manner of brutalization.”

“He doesn’t seem as frightened of me.”

“He probably thinks you’re another slave in the household,” Aziraphale said, “which would explain his disorientation. Surely he’s not used to seeing a demon behave like you, not in the presence of an angel.”

Crowley sniffed as he took a seat at the kitchen table. “Well you can be sure I won’t be playing the cringing servant in my own home.”

“Of course not, dear. I wouldn’t have it.”

Crowley rested his chin on his hands, looking thoughtful. “He’s in for a time, isn’t he?”

Aziraphale joined Crowley, a steaming mug in his hands. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed some tea until just now. 

“I think we all are, truth be told.”

***

Crowley and Aziraphale sat sipping tea and trying to talk about anything except their strange new charge, which primarily meant lots of silence, until midnight. Valen had been left alone in his room for about two hours, and Aziraphale was beside himself with concern.

“Shall we go and check on him, then?”

Crowley shrugged. “If you want.” Aziraphale could tell he was still keeping his distance, emotionally, from the whole affair. He couldn’t blame the demon for his discomfort and lingering suspicion. But he felt so alone in all this and hoped desperately that Crowley would come around soon.

Aziraphale headed up the stairs, checking over his shoulder to see if Crowley was joining him. To his relief, the demon was padding along behind him. 

When they reached Valen’s room, Aziraphale was surprised to see him standing in nearly the same place. He had dressed himself in a pair of navy blue sweatpants and a soft white t-shirt, which for some reason he had put on backwards so that the collar was high in the front and dipped low between his shoulderblades. His wings remained out.

“How are you doing?” Aziraphale asked.

Valen pointed nervously to the chest of drawers. “I got dressed. Like you told me to. Sir.”

“Oh. Right, yes - do you like the clothes? Are you comfortable?”

Valen did not appear to have an answer. Instead, he brought his hand to his mouth and tore at his nails with his teeth. Aziraphale could see that at least two of his fingertips were bleeding. 

“You’re hurt, my dear. May I?”

Aziraphale took a step into the room. Valen jerked his hand out of his mouth and held both his arms behind his back. “I - I’m sorry -”

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale said, his arm outstretched as if he were approaching a skittish dog or horse. “I just want to help you.”

Valen hung his head. “I’ll be good, I’m sorry! I don’t need help, please, I can stop -”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for,” Aziraphale cooed. “May I see your hand, please?”

Slowly, Valen held out his hands, which were both shaking. Aziraphale reached for one and held it. It was the first time he had touched Valen. 

When skin met skin, Valen let out a tiny, pained squeak, though he didn’t withdraw his hand.

“He thinks you’re going to hurt him,” came Crowley’s matter-of-fact voice from the doorway.

Aziraphale looked back, aghast. “No, no!” He turned back to Valen, who was cowering before him. “I’m only trying to help you, see?” He closed his eyes and focused on healing the demon, but it felt like directing a miracle into wet sand. Some thick buzzing blocked him and he dropped Valen’s hand, opening his eyes.

“It’s not working,” he said.

Valen fell to his knees, sniffling. Aziraphale looked helplessly at Crowley, at a loss for what to do.

“What’s that on the back of his neck?” Crowley took two long strides into his room, joining Aziraphale. 

“Some kind of sigil,” Aziraphale murmured.

Crowley crouched down to look, careful not to make contact with Valen. He whistled under his breath. “That’s a nasty binding,” he said. “Blocks all cosmic powers. In or out.”

“Oh.” 

Aziraphale felt the stone in his pocket. It dawned on him, then, how this cruel magic worked. Only the shards and their parent crystals had any effects on the demons whose essences had been pierced and infused. The sigil prevented anything else from working.

He knelt then, and took Valen’s hand again, turning it palm up. He pressed the stone and its chain into the demon’s hand, closing his fingers around it. “Here,” he said. “This is yours. Only yours. You can heal yourself. You - you belong to yourself.”

Valen’s eyes went round, his face contorted with what looked like rage. “I know who I belong to,” he spat through gritted teeth. Then he grabbed at the stone and threw it directly at Aziraphale, watched it bounce against the angel’s waistcoat and fall to the floor on a pool of gold chain. Then the little demon froze, both hands clapped over his mouth, eyes round with shock and regret at his outburst. 

“What’s wrong? Valen, what’s wrong?” 

At Aziraphale’s voice, Valen began to shuffle backwards, hands raised like a supplicant. “I - I’m sorry, I didn’t mean - oh, please, please, I’m sorry, I know better, I do, I belong to you, I know, I’ll be good, please!”

Aziraphale reached a hand out to try and calm the panicking demon, but Crowley’s low warning voice stopped him.

“Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale froze, his hand raised just over the trembling curve of Valen’s back. He had never felt so helpless. Had God so abandoned him, that he would be adrift in this sea of atrocities with no lighthouse, no shred of righteousness to cling to?

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, unable to fight back his own tears. He backed away until he reached the gem lying on the floor, then bent down and touched it with his fingertips, sent as much healing toward Valen as he could. Crowley gathered him into his arms, and together they left the room, closing the door quietly on the awful scene. 

Aziraphale kept vigil outside of Valen’s room for the rest of the evening. He didn’t like to abandon the demon, but he knew his presence wasn’t doing him any good. So he sat, his back against the hallway wall, watching the door with tired eyes.

When Valen’s cries quieted down, Aziraphale eventually peeked in to see that the demon had fallen into an exhausted sleep on the floor. He tiptoed inside and laid a blanket over Valen’s small body, hoping the tiny act of kindness would mean something, anything.

The gem twinkled in the moonlight, right where Aziraphale had left it. He stepped over it with a grimace. He would have to take it back up later, he knew, but he could not bring himself to touch it again. He hated it, hated everything about it. He hated that he held such dominance, such ownership, over another. He didn’t want it, had never wanted it.

Soon, he would find a way to break the sigil, to remove the shard. But for now, the responsibility for Valen was his and his alone. And it was a weighty one. 

What had he gotten himself into?

Every hour or so, Crowley brought him a fresh cup of tea. For a while, he sat down beside Aziraphale, and they leaned on each other, shoulder against shoulder, wordless companions in a strange and stormy sea.

***

The sun rose, filling the hallway with pale yellow light. Aziraphale rubbed his eyes. Crowley was sprawled on the floor next to him, snoring softly. Soon he would wake, and surely so would Valen, and Aziraphale would face another day full of impossible choices.

He dreaded the moment when the day would start in earnest. It was clear by now that the demon behind the closed bedroom door would stay there all day without an invitation - without  _ permission _ \- to do otherwise. Part of Aziraphale wanted to delay that for as long as possible. But that would be cruel, to keep Valen shut up and trapped simply so Aziraphale could avoid an unpleasant scene. 

Aziraphale hauled himself to his feet, stretching the night’s soreness out of his back. He lifted Crowley and carried him to their bed, not wanting Valen to draw any of the wrong conclusions after seeing Crowley sleeping on the hall floor. Then he made his way downstairs, where he prepared a simple breakfast he hoped would appeal to all tastes: a scone with warm butter, two sausages, a fried egg, and a cup of sliced fresh fruit. 

Returning to the upstairs hallway, Aziraphale took up his previous position. He set the plate on the floor and spent a small miracle to keep it perfectly warm, then listened closely for any sign of movement in Valen’s room.

Crowley woke first, wandering into the hallway with rumpled hair. “You still here?”

Aziraphale nodded. 

“I was thinking,” Crowley said, pacing slowly up and down, “that it might be better to let me try. Talking to him, I mean.”

Gratitude flooded Aziraphale. “You’d do that?”

“Doesn’t seem to like you much,” Crowley said, shrugging. “Might as well try.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale felt a twinge of sadness that someone he held only good will for saw him in such a fearsome light. “Probably for the best.”

Crowley gestured toward the plate of breakfast. “So I’ll bring him that, yeah?”

“He’s not awake yet,” Aziraphale said. “I’m sure he needs his sleep.”

“Right. I’ll have some coffee, then.” As Crowley disappeared down the stairs, Aziraphale realized he had not prepared anything for his lover, he had been so distracted trying to guess at Valen’s preferences.

Finally, once Aziraphale had heard enough shuffling about to be sure they wouldn’t disturb Valen’s rest, Crowley knocked on the door.

“Hey, Valen? I’ve got some breakfast for you. Can I come in?”

Aziraphale had positioned himself just out of sight, behind the door as it opened. He wanted to hear every word the two exchanged, wanted to better understand the little demon he had taken into his home.

The door creaked open. “Morning,” Crowley said.

“Hello,” Valen mumbled. Aziraphale strained to catch his voice.

“I, uh, I brought you some food.” Crowley shifted his weight from foot to foot as he held out the plate.

“Why?”

“Er,” Crowley said. “Aziraphale - the angel - he thought you might like some.”

“Am I supposed to?”

“No - I mean, if you want. Listen, can I come in?”

Aziraphale heard Valen step back, Crowley’s footsteps, the sound of the china plate being set down on top of the dresser.

Then Valen’s timid voice. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“What does he want? I don’t - I’m trying, but I don’t understand.”

Aziraphale heard Crowley sigh impatiently. “That’s the thing, man. There’s no rules here, nothing special you’ve got to do. Just relax, alright? Do whatever you like.”

The bedsprings creaked - someone had sat down heavily on the bed. 

Valen’s voice, downcast and placating. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”

“What?”

“I’m not trying to - whatever you have with him, I won’t do anything. I couldn’t take your place even if I tried. Please, help me. I just want to stay out of trouble.”

“You’re not in trouble.” Aziraphale could tell Crowley was getting frustrated. “I’m not trying to get you in any trouble. Really. Look, just eat the food, would you?”

Hearing Crowley start to raise his voice triggered some protective instinct in Aziraphale that made him step out from behind the door and make his presence known in the doorway.

Instantly, Valen pointed to Crowley and started to babble frantically. “He - he put it in here. I wasn’t going to eat any, I swear! Please - it was him! I didn’t want to, I didn’t!”

“What?” Crowley narrowed his eyes, angrily. “Stop that, come on.”

Valen fell to his knees, his hands covering his face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he wailed.

“I’ve no clue what he’s on about,” groused Crowley.

“Okay, alright,” Aziraphale said, holding his hands up in surrender. “It seems there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Seems like,” Crowley said, folding his arms.

“Valen, love,” Aziraphale said cautiously, “it’s up to you - would you like to have something to eat?”

Valen glanced desperately from the plate of food, to Crowley, then back to Aziraphale, obviously trying to come up with the right answer. He shook his head, then pulled in to himself as if bracing for a blow. 

“Okay. That’s okay, that’s fine.” Aziraphale took the plate off the dresser. “If you change your mind, you’re welcome to anything in the kitchen.”

Valen was still on his knees, looking balefully at Crowley, as if he was to blame for whatever had happened. 

“Oh, get up,” Crowley said. “No one’s going to hurt you. I keep telling you.”

“Be gentle,” Aziraphale chided.

Valen looked oddly satisfied at that, straightening his posture a bit.

Crowley rolled his eyes and departed rather huffily, leaving Aziraphale again alone with Valen.

“He’s right, though,” Aziraphale said, taking a seat on the floor and munching absentmindedly on the sausages. “You are no slave here, and I am not your master. I take no pleasure in holding that stone, and will make a project of freeing you from whatever spell those angels have you under. You’re safe here. You’re among friends.”

Valen did not move, but his eyes followed the journey of the sausage from plate to mouth. 

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

At that, Valen made a sound that sounded like a little breath, the softest of sobs. 

“Valen? Do you understand?”

“Please,” the demon whispered, his fingers starting to twist together. “I can be good. I want to be good. Just tell me, please.”

Aziraphale figured it was perhaps unfair to expect three hundred years of conditioning to fall away after a bit of tender care. 

“I’m sure it’s all very confusing for you,” Aziraphale said. “I bet every time you’ve been somewhere new, the rules were different, and you were frightened and hurt. Is that true?”

Valen nodded.

“And I don’t blame you for not trusting me. Or Crowley. It must be very difficult for you.”

“I’m trying,” Valen whimpered. “I’ll be so good.”

Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to gather the little demon into his arms, to coddle and soothe him - but he sensed that reaching out to him wouldn’t do any good.

“I know,” he said, trying to infuse his words with love, and grace, and hopefulness. “I’m sure you’re very, very good. And I’m sorry for what’s happened to you.”

A tear ran down Valen’s cheek and the demon hastily wiped it away - then, as if pulled by a magnet once it got close enough, his damp finger found its way between his teeth. New-healed skin, fresh and smooth after Aziraphale’s efforts the day before, started to rip and bleed.

“Now,” Aziraphale said, “I’d like to help you get more comfortable. Can I help you to the bed?”

A strange tension took hold of Valen then, and he stood, letting Aziraphale take his hand. Aziraphale turned down the sheets and guided Valen under the covers. But the demon just lay flat, nearly rigid, as if waiting for the next instruction.

Figuring that leaning over the prone demon would not help him calm down, Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the covers tucked themselves around Valen, the pillows fluffed just so. But he looked so uncomfortable, laid out like he was.

“Would you like to put your wings away?”

“If it pleases Sir,” Valen said numbly.

“No - no, really, I’m asking - would you like to?”

Valen nodded, a tiny motion Aziraphale almost missed.

“Alright, alright, of course.” Aziraphale cast about for the Yatsarite, then picked it up from the floor. He focused his energy on giving Valen control, as much as possible; on permission for the demon to manage his own wings.

They disappeared with a rustling, and the sigh of relief from Valen’s lips was lovely.

“There you are, dear. Please do make yourself at home.”

Valen shifted slightly, then pulled the duvet over his head. Aziraphale marvelled at how tiny his form was without his wings, barely a rumple in the blankets. 

***

“What was that all about?” Crowley was waiting for Aziraphale downstairs, sprawled in his usual chair. He wore his glasses, which he rarely did when at home.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Aziraphale said. “But it certainly didn’t go well.”

“He thinks I’m trying to frame him up,” Crowley said. “He thinks I’m your favored little pet, and that I’m jealous of him.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale sank into his seat opposite Crowley. “That’s not going to be helpful.”

Crowley laughed dryly. “Probably not.”

“I helped him to put his wings away, at least.”

“Nice of you.” Crowley seemed a bit peevish.

“Well you saw them. They’re in an absolute state. It was the least I could do.”

“The least you could do?” Crowley spoke with his trademark incredulity. “Seems to me you’re doing the absolute most for this strange demon you decided to bring home. Without asking me, mind, or even letting me know you were popping off to some Heavenly slave auction.”

“I couldn’t just  _ leave him _ , Crowley!”

“Why not?” Crowley was keeping his voice low, which made his serpentine hissing all the more obvious. “What made him different from all the others? Or is your plan to single-handedly rescue a whole bunch of very confused demons?”

“Crowley, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale started. But Crowley wasn’t done.

“No, Aziraphale. This is big - too big for you to take on alone. And it’s serious. You can’t just leave me out, anymore. We’ve got to be smart about this.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, relaxing. Crowley wasn’t angry with  _ him _ . He was upset by the whole of the situation, by learning that his fellows were being kept in bondage, by seeing Aziraphale put at risk by his unwilling involvement.

Of course Crowley was upset. It was all deeply upsetting. 

“Crowley, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you at the time. I only wanted to protect you.”

Crowley took his glasses off and set them aside, meeting Aziraphale’s gaze with his amber eyes. “I know, angel. You always have your reasons. But I need you safe, too. You’ve got to let me in.”

“I will.” Aziraphale reached out to take Crowley’s hand. “I promise. No more secrets. It’s us in this together, from now on.”

Crowley squeezed his hand and smiled. “Not that it’ll do our new friend any good. I don’t think he likes either of us very much.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Best to leave him be for a while, I imagine. I had hoped to do some research into that dreadful tattoo on his back, and the Creation Stone the angels have managed to harness.”

“The humans wrote about that?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said. “But the angels figured it out somehow, and we won’t get anywhere if we can’t do something about those bindings.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and leaned back in his seat. “I’m not much of a research assistant, angel.”

“You’re the best there is, darling,” Aziraphale said, smiling indulgently.

***

Aziraphale worked long into the afternoon, Crowley keeping him company and occasionally wandering off to bring him more tea, or a new book. He was helpful at deciphering some of the more occult language Aziraphale encountered, but by suppertime it had become obvious that they would make no more progress without an exact image of the symbol marked on Valen’s back.

Crowley knew it, too. Aziraphale had been delaying the inevitable, but after more than an hour passed without any new leads, the demon spoke up.

“We’re not going to find much more like this, angel. We need a good look at it.”

“I know.” Aziraphale closed the book he had been staring blankly at. “But I just don’t see how.”

“Can’t you just,” Crowley made a vague noise and gestured toward Aziraphale’s pocket, “...you know?”

“I absolutely will not,” Aziraphale said, offended.

“It’s just a quick request,” Crowley wheedled. “Won’t hurt anything. He’ll do whatever you ask him. Honestly, might help him relax, having an easy order to follow.”

“Out of the question.” 

Crowley shrugged. “You never make things easy on yourself, do you?”

That was perhaps the truest thing Aziraphale had heard in a while. 

“Maybe,” Aziraphale said as he considered his options, “he’s still sleeping.”

“Possible, yeah.”

“And we could just pop in and have a look, as he sleeps.”

It was still a violation, but one Aziraphale felt slightly more comfortable with. He seemed to be stuck choosing the lesser of two evils with alarming frequency lately.

“He’ll be very upset if you wake him up,” Crowley said. “Nothing like being startled out of sleep by your new  _ master _ standing over your bed.”

Aziraphale could hardly stand the teasing note in Crowley’s voice, which may have been masking something darker. “Crowley, please.” Still, he was right. The risk was great. “I suppose,” Aziraphale mused, sliding his hand into his pocket, “I could help him stay asleep.”

“Didn’t you just refuse to use that thing?” 

“It feels different, somehow,” Aziraphale said, though he wasn’t even convincing himself. “We need it, if we’re going to help him, and there doesn’t seem to be a better way.”

“Your call, angel.”

Aziraphale hated that it was his call. Crowley’s ambivalence, his ability to joke about or distance himself from what Aziraphale had brought to his doorstep, made this all the more difficult. But everything felt too delicate, too new, to try and press the matter.

“Right, then.” Aziraphale stood up, drawing the stone from his pocket by its gold chain. “If he’s sleeping, we - I’ll - just give him a little nudge to stay that way. But if he’s not, we’ll simply speak to him. Explain the circumstances.”

“Sure thing.” Crowley did not move.

Aziraphale slid a notebook and pen toward Crowley. “Would you mind coming up with me, dear? You’ve always been a better sketcher.”

“If you want.” Crowley took the notebook and pen in one slender hand and unfolded himself from the desk chair, following Aziraphale upstairs.

A carefully cupped ear to the door, and the extension of some angelic sensing, led Aziraphale to conclude that Valen had remained asleep. He wondered darkly how long it had been since Valen was allowed to rest his body. 

Aziraphale held the crystal between his fingers and focused on calm, on restfulness, on deep sleep and peace. Then he nodded at Crowley, who pushed the door open and stepped silently into the room. 

Valen remained curled in much the same position as Aziraphale had left him, but he had one thumb in his mouth, its outline visible just inside his cheek. His bright hair drifted from his braid in a cloud around his head.

Crowley tugged the covers back and bent over, squinting in the dim light. He didn’t have to shift Valen’s t-shirt at all, since it was on backwards, and the sigil was easily visible above the small rise of his spine. Aziraphale remembered the open-backed robe the demon had been wearing when they met, and Valen putting his shirt on backwards made awful sense now. Most likely, he hadn’t been allowed to cover the sigil or the shard scar. 

Crowley sketched for a few seconds, the pen against paper the only sound in the room, then straightened up and walked briskly toward Aziraphale. He nearly smacked the angel in the chest with the notebook, handing it off roughly as he left. Aziraphale heard him curse under his breath, but didn’t catch the words.

***

Crowley and Aziraphale didn’t speak again all afternoon. Aziraphale took up his spot at the study desk, surrounded by tomes and notes, consulting Crowley’s drawings. Crowley had disappeared off somewhere. He hadn’t told Aziraphale where he was going, but if the angel had been the betting type, he would have put the meagre remainder of his celestial backpay down on the guess that Crowley was back at his flat tending aggressively to his plants.

Sure enough, the demon returned after sunset, a smudge of potting soil above his left eyebrow, with the comfortably-perturbed air he liked to affect after a day of gardening.

“Hello, dear.” Aziraphale took off his reading glasses and smiled at the figure in the doorway. “I was just winding down my work for the night. Fancy some wine?”

Crowley shook his head, glancing around the room. “He still not up?”

“I haven’t heard a peep,” Aziraphale said. 

“Well he can’t just sleep forever.” Crowley snapped his fingers and he was instantly clean, his glasses on a shelf by the door, his jacket on the hook Aziraphale had insisted he use rather than the back of whatever item of furniture was nearest. “I’m going up there.”

“Crowley, what -” Aziraphale hurried to follow. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Needs someone to talk to him.”

Aziraphale couldn’t argue. “Do you mind if I listen outside the door?”

Crowley turned around, mid-step. “What for?”

“I only want to understand him better. To - to be able to help.”

“FIne.” Crowley continued up the stairs. “But don’t come barging in, alright?”

“Of course.”

“Just let me,” Crowley said, lowering his voice as they approached Valen’s door. “I’ll call for you, don’t worry.”

Aziraphale nodded. Crowley knocked a few times, then opened the door without waiting for a response. Aziraphale winced at Crowley’s intrusion, but said nothing, as he’d promised.

“Hey.” Crowley’s voice was friendly but firm. “You awake?”

A gasp and the rustling of sheets. “What? What?”

“You’re fine. Guess you needed your sleep.”

“I’m sorry!” Feet landing on the floor, frenzied movements. “Where is - what am I to do?”

“Nothing, don’t worry. He’s downstairs. I just came by to say hello. And welcome. Think we got off to a rough start.”

Silence.

“I’m Crowley.”

“Valen.”

“Yeah, I know.”

More silence. Aziraphale itched with the need to peek around the doorway, to see what was happening. 

“That’s a nice braid,” Crowley said at last. “You do that yourself?”

Aziraphale couldn’t hear Valen’s response. He guessed the demon had either nodded or shaken his head. 

“A bit mussed, though. Sleeping on a pillow’ll do that. I’ve got a brush and some spray, if you want.”

“May I?”

“Sure thing.” Crowley left the room, ignoring Aziraphale completely, then returned with a handful of hair care supplies that he liked to use when he was bored and felt like playing with his hair rather than styling it with a miracle.

“Haven’t used these in a while,” he heard Crowley say - then the noisy bedsprings, telling him Crowley had sat on the bed. “Let me see.”

A shifting of bodies. Aziraphale imagined Crowley taking Valen’s braid in his deft fingers. 

“You want another single plait, same as before?”

Valen’s voice was unsure, deferent. “How does he like it?”

“Who? Aziraphale? He likes everything. Right glutton, that one.”

“Yours is long.” 

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale could hear Crowley searching for the right words. “That’s just for now. I’ve had it all kinda of ways.”

Silence, then Crowley again, speaking carefully. “Did your last one - did they make you keep it like this?”

“Yes.”

A sigh from Crowley. A moment’s pause. Aziraphale wondered if Crowley was thinking the same thing as he was: how the long, thin braid would have made Valen easy to grab. Pull. Control. 

“Hey.” Crowley’s voice was hushed. “If you could have it any way you wanted, what would you choose?”

Valen's mumbling was difficult to make out. “Just - just the plait, please.”

“Really, though.” Crowley sounded playfully conspiratorial. “Any cut, any style, how would you want it?”

A pause. An intake of breath. “Short, I guess.”

“You want your hair short?” Then Aziraphale heard Crowley’s voice, shouted as if he were all the way downstairs. “Oi! Angel! Bring up some scissors, Valen wants to cut his hair!”

Aziraphale conjured some scissors into his hand, but waited a moment to give the impression that he hadn’t been eavesdropping. As he did so, he heard a panicked scramble inside the room, and Valen pleading with Crowley.

“No - please, don’t!”

“It’s fine, you’ll see.”

“Stop! I’m sorry - please!”

Aziraphale put on his friendliest, most accommodating expression as he entered the room. “Scissors, love?”

Valen was on the floor, backed against the wall, pointing accusingly at Crowley. “No, no - I never said - he said it! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it!”

Crowley took the scissors from Aziraphale and held them down to Valen. “Here you go.”

“Stop it! Stop!” Valen turned his head away, covering his face.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley was oddly calm given the hysterics unfolding, twirling the scissors around one finger. “You care if I cut my hair?”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale said, unsure of what Crowley was playing it, but trying to keep up. “It’s your body, after all.”

“Cool.” Crowley lifted the scissors to his head and began to snip chunks out, letting them fall to the floor.

Valen peeked out between his fingers, looking astonished. 

“See?” Crowley asked. “It’s fine. You do what you want. Here.” He offered the scissors to Valen again, who looked at Aziraphale as if seeking permission.

“It’s fine, dear,” he said. “If you want a haircut, have one.”

Valen took the scissors, his hand shaking so badly Aziraphale thought he might cut himself by accident. He hesitantly took his pale braid in the other hand, then sliced off less than an inch from the narrow tip.

“That’s all?” Crowley said.

Valen only stared at Aziraphale, waiting. Aziraphale said nothing, but smiled encouragingly. 

Valen raised the scissors a bit higher. Then he took off a bit more.

“Looking lovely,” Aziraphale said.

With the barest of smiles and a steadier hand, Valen reached behind him and took hold of the braid at its base, lopping it off and leaving himself with a blunt-edged bob.

All three held their breath. Valen froze, anticipating violence. 

Aziraphale didn’t move.

Then Crowley broke the silence: “That’s great, but now you look ridiculous. Let’s get you a proper haircut.”

He pulled Valen to his feet and set him in front of the room’s round mirror, then took the scissors and began working. Straw-blonde hair fell to the floor in wisps, and soon Valen had short, spiky tufts where his braid had been.

“There, see?” Crowley stepped back. 

Valen reached up and touched his hair, right at the back of his skull. He tried to close his fist around it, but there wasn’t enough to take hold of. He tried again, and again, failing each time. With each test, his smile grew.

Then he dropped his hand, looking pleased as he studied his reflection. Aziraphale saw him make eye contact with Crowley in the mirror, though Valen was studiously avoiding looking anywhere near Aziraphale.

“Thank you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale takes Crowley, disguised as his "slave," to a small gathering of angels involved in the trade. Valen struggles to settle in and comprehend his freedom after four centuries of captivity.
> 
> Special thanks to @Dacelin for beta-ing this chapter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live in an area hit by the coronavirus, so I'm stuck inside with the kiddo for the forseeable future. Hopefully that means more chapters more quickly? Everyone please stay safe and stay home! 
> 
> I've had some folks ask about this, so for the record: I would absolutely welcome art, fics, playlists, moodboards, or anything else inspired by this (or any of my other works). 
> 
> As always, you can find me on tumblr at @desperateground. <3

Aziraphale wanted nothing less than to speak to Gabriel again, but he knew eventually he’d have to ask the archangel for more answers. Over the next day, Valen alternated between a brooding sleep and a nervous wakefulness, refusing to accept any offered food. He seemed unable to relax and continued to cower and plead for instructions. Crowley had some success getting him to watch television, but Aziraphale suspected it was only because the confused demon thought it was some kind of training program.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale wasn’t able to delay his next conversation with Gabriel much longer. The archangel called him that afternoon, his voice too loud over Aziraphale’s old rotary phone.

“Hey, buddy! How’re things going?”

“They’re fine.” Crowley sidled up to him, trying to listen in on the call, and Aziraphale got himself twisted in the phone cord while maneuvering around Crowley. “Really - just, you know. Settling in at home.”

“Had any trouble with the new one? I heard he’s a nightmare.”

Crowley began to mime an attack on Gabriel, pretending to wring the archangel’s neck.

“No, as a matter of fact, he’s been just a dear,” Aziraphale said, turning around to avoid the distraction.

“Really, Aziraphale, there’s no shame in a little struggle. Want me to come over? I can bring mine, you can see how I work with them.”

Crowley, who had moved to ensure he stayed within Aziraphale’s line of sight, and who could obviously hear Gabriel’s too-loud voice over the phone, intensified his violent gestures.

“No, no, that won’t be necessary. I, er, I’m just - enjoying my time in, if you will.”

“Atta boy.” Gabriel’s wink was almost audible in his obnoxious voice. “Anyway, Nephriel’s having a few of us over to her place tomorrow night - you should come!”

“No, no, I’m afraid I can’t,” Aziraphale began. Crowley started to flail his arms, motioning him forward, as if to take the invitation. The angel shot him a very confused and agitated look, but Crowley only exaggerated his charade. “Or, well, yes, I suppose I will,” he said, flustered. 

“Great! You going to bring yours?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say no, but Crowley flashed him a thumbs up and began nodding vigorously. Aziraphale shook his head back with equal force. The two engaged in a silent argument of facial expressions for so long that Aziraphale knew he had to say something. “It’ll have to be a surprise! A lovely surprise! Who knows? Keep you on your toes. Anyhow, toodle-oo!”

Aziraphale slammed the phone down.

Crowley was staring at him as if he’d grown a second head. “A lovely surprise?  _ Toodle-oo!?” _

“I panicked! You were distracting me - what was all that about?”

Crowley flopped into the chair next to the phone and watched Aziraphale disentangle himself from the phone cord. “You’ve got to bring me, angel!”

“It’s too dangerous! Besides, I couldn’t possibly - to act as your so-called  _ master _ , it’s unthinkable.”

“Come on,” Crowley wheedled, and Aziraphale knew he would end up saying yes before long. “Two heads are better than one, and I want to see this creepy shit from the inside.”

“You must understand the risk, Crowley! You should have seen what they were doing to those poor demons!”

“So you agree, then.”

“What?”

“That I should see. What’s going on.”

“No - Crowley - I don’t -”

Crowley clapped his hands on his knees. “That settles it, then. It only seems fair, anyways. You ran off to this thing without telling me, you owe me some insight.”

Aziraphale had completely lost the conversation, in more ways than one. “Alright,” he sighed. “But we’ll have to be convincing.”

“I’m at your command,  _ master. _ ”

Crowley’s eyes twinkled with playful jest, but the words stung. “This isn’t a game, Crowley.”

“If it is,” Crowley said, growing serious, “it’s not one we can afford to lose.”

Aziraphale thought of the little demon upstairs, wracked with fright, with his shredded fingertips and inked back. 

“No,” he agreed. “We certainly cannot.”

***

The two spent the rest of the afternoon preparing Crowley’s disguise. Given that Aziraphale refused to place anything resembling a collar, or chains, or shackles, on Crowley, they decided to weave a wide black ribbon into his hair, long enough for Aziraphale to hold at one end.

Aziraphale was stitching binding sigils into the ribbon, squinting close at the intricate details, while Crowley sat behind him in the chair, his gangly limbs wrapped around the angel, his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“You’ve gotten that one wrong,” Crowley said, pointing to one of the symbols Aziraphale had just embroidered. “It’s an arrow there, not a flourish.”

“I still think,” Aziraphale muttered as he picked out the stitches, “that we should use weaker ones. Or better yet, gibberish. I don’t like you cut off from your powers.”

“We discussed this, angel.” Crowley was right - they had already had this argument, but Aziraphale was not ready to let it go. “It’s less risky overall. Best not to let them catch us in a fraud.”

“I don’t like it.” Aziraphale stabbed himself with the needle and performed what must have been his ten thousandth miracle to repair his fingertip.

“If things go pear shaped,” Crowley said, “you can slip the ribbon out. Worst case scenario.”

“Worst case scenario,” Aziraphale repeated, lifting the fabric close to his face as he focused.

They sat for a while in companionable quiet, until movement out the corner of Aziraphale’s eye caught his attention. Valen was at the top of the stairs, peeping around the corner, watching.

“Good evening, dear,” Aziraphale said, looking up with a smile. “Would you care to join us?”

With the quickness of a skittish woodland creature, Valen disappeared from view. Aziraphale resisted the urge to call after him and try to encourage him to come down to the living room.

“I do wish he would,” he sighed. “Some time cuddled up near the fire and some friendly chatter would do him a world of good.”

“Give it time,” Crowley said, nuzzling into Aziraphale’s neck.

Valen’s behavior grew even more odd when, later that night, Crowley and Aziraphale went upstairs to spend the night in their own bed, as they often did. Valen was standing in the open doorway to his room, in a perfectly subservient posture with his hands behind his back and head bowed. He wore the robe he had on when Aziraphale first saw him, having folded his new clothes neatly on the bed.

“Valen?” Aziraphale bent down a bit to try and angle for eye contact. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry for eavesdropping, Sir,” Valen said, his voice quiet and deferential. “I heard you making preparations to return to Heaven. I’ve made myself ready for the journey.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale didn’t know what to say. “Do you want to come with us?”

Valen paused before answering. “I would be pleased to stay with you, Sir. But since I have not satisfied, it is right that you should receive your wages back and send me to a new master. I apologize.”

“No, no, oh dear.” Aziraphale had no clue how to right this misunderstanding. He straightened up and looked to Crowley for help, but received only an “I’m-as-lost-as-you-are” look for his trouble.

“I am not taking you back to Heaven,” Aziraphale said. “You are welcome here for as long as you like. I would never send you back to - to that place. Okay? You are safe here.”

Valen lifted his head slightly. Aziraphale could see his slate colored eyes, brimming with tears. “I may stay?”

“Absolutely.” Aziraphale held out one arm to guide Valen back into the bedroom without touching him. The demon sat on the bed, looking dazed.

“Thank you, Master. You are too gracious.”

Aziraphale wiped his hand over his eyes, trying to suppress his revulsion and anger, which he knew Valen would misunderstand. “You don’t need to call me that,” he said. “In fact, please don’t.”

Valen said nothing. Aziraphale turned to the chest of drawers. “Now let’s get you something nicer than that thing, okay?” He rifled through the drawers and pulled out a long flannel housecoat. When he turned back to Valen, the demon had one of his fingers in his mouth, but yanked it free as soon as he saw Aziraphale take notice.

Crowley, who had been watching the scene unfold from the doorway, laughed. “Oh, don’t make him wear that, angel.” He strode into the room and snatched the garment from Aziraphale’s hands, miracling it into oblivion with a snap.

Valen’s whole body snapped taut with alarm as he stared up at Crowley. He was now gnawing aggressively on his knuckles. 

Crowley ignored Valen’s change in demeanor and started digging through the dresser. “Cripes, angel, did you conjure anything from after the 1850s?”

Aziraphale started to defend the array of comfortable clothing when Crowley let out a triumphant “ah-ha!” 

He handed a bundle of black clothing to Valen, who took it from Crowley with the hand not currently between his teeth. 

“There,” Crowley said. “That’ll do ya. Put those on and have a sleep. No one’s taking you anywhere. And get rid of that awful thing once you have it off, alright?” He snapped his fingers, and a black wicker laundry hamper appeared in the bedroom.

Valen nodded, a tiny, barely perceptible movement.

“Night, then,” Crowley said, then grabbed Aziraphale’s arm and pulled him out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

“What was that?” Aziraphale whispered. “You’re scaring the poor thing to bits!”

“He needs us to act normal,” Crowley said. “He’ll see, nothing bad happens. It’s fine.” Crowley snapped himself into his underwear, then fell into the massive bed he shared with Aziraphale most nights. “Come on in, angel. Cuddle up. Big day tomorrow.”

Aziraphale began to undo his bowtie, preferring to undress the human way rather than using miracles like Crowley. “Alright,” he said, his mind still occupied by the way they’d left Valen, like a stunned little statue on the bed. 

“But first, I’m putting my favorite pajamas on. And I won’t have any comments about them.”

***

Gabriel had given Aziraphale instructions on how to get to Nephriel’s place, and he rehearsed them multiple times with Crowley before the two left. According to Gabriel, while it was known in Heaven that some archangels had made a project of keeping “subdued” demons in their quarters, it was a practice best kept private, and that demons should not be paraded around in the halls.

“Someday,” Gabriel had said wistfully, “it’ll be different. But for now, just pop right to Nephriel’s door, and don’t put him in anything too obvious.”

Aziraphale found those instructions easy to follow, given that he and Crowley had already decided that Crowley would wear his standard black ensemble, minus his shoes. It was important that his neck stay covered, lest his missing ‘shard’ raise concerns, and Aziraphale struggled not to pull and fuss at the back of Crowley’s collar as they made their final preparations to leave.

Crowley had braided the finished ribbon into his hair, leaving a few feet dangling from the end of his braid. He held it out to Aziraphale, who hesitated.

“Come on, angel,” Crowley said. “You can do this.”

Aziraphale nodded and took the end of the ribbon. He was also wearing Valen’s stone around his neck, but otherwise his outfit had not changed.

“You ready?” 

“To sit at your feet and serve? Always, angel.”

“Don’t joke, Crowley.”

Crowley looked somewhat chastened, though he continued to smirk. “No miracles for me with this thing on. Take us away, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale held his breath, then snapped his fingers and brought them to the door of Nephriel’s Heavenly quarters. He knocked, clenching his other fist around the ribbon.

Nephriel’s shadow moved behind the door, peeking through the peephole, then it opened. “Welcome!” She seemed genuinely delighted to see Aziraphale as she hurried him and Crowley inside.

Aziraphale had to fight to keep from wrinkling his nose at the atrocious nature of Nephriel’s “quarters.” They were as plain and spartan as any other area of Heaven; no ‘material objects’ or ‘gross matter’ to intrude on her supposed purity. Aziraphale knew he was an outlier for his appreciation of the bodily comforts among the Host, but it still seemed hard to fathom that angels lived without any cozy furniture, or tasty snacks, or delightful trinkets.

No, the room was much like a long, white-lit conference room, with an oval table taking up most of it. The gathered angels - five, Aziraphale counted - were sitting around it in plain, unremarkable chairs. There was nothing on the table. Angels did not gather socially in the ways humans did - no food, no dice, no cards, no shared entertainment.

One wall held a small shelf, which contained the entirety of Nephriel’s belongings: her folded dress uniform, a case for some kind of weapon, the glass tablet all angels used to communicate, what looked like a piece of olivewood, and a stack of books bound in white linen with gold embossed spines. Aziraphale recognized them as the only texts circulating in Heaven: the  _ Anglorumae _ , or history of the angels and their role in the universe. He had never read them - they were dreadfully boring, and he suspected rather embellished. And they were long, making for seven volumes, each very heavy.

Two were missing from Nephriel’s set, leaving a gap on the shelf. As he took in the room, Aziraphale saw with horror where the two books had gone. The slave Nephriel had so abused at the party was standing in the corner of the room, arms outstretched with a book resting on the flat of each palm. Anguish consumed his face, and his bare muscles were shaking with the strain.

“Glad you made it,” Gabriel boomed, startling Aziraphale out of his survey of the room. 

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Aziraphale lied. As he stepped toward the table, he noticed that both Gabriel and Michael’s demons were standing beside them. He and Crowley had planned for Crowley to kneel, and he wondered whether that would be some kind of faux pas. 

Since they couldn’t speak or coordinate, he figured it would be best to stick with their plan. He pressed on Crowley’s shoulder, sending him fluidly to the floor as Aziraphale took a seat. Gabriel introduced him around the table - Michael, who he knew; Nephriel, who he’d met at the party; and Ampharel, who he recognized from the party but pretended not to. 

Ampharel was not accompanied by a demon. The one beside Michael initially appeared to be the same one she had brought to the party - they were dressed identically, with a shaved head and two gold rings pierced through their lips - but Aziraphale realized that no, this was a different individual. The shorn fuzz of their hair was darker, and their eyes were a hazel brown.

“Now that’s unusual,” Michael said, leaning across the table to look at the ribbon still in Aziraphale’s hand. She started to reach for it, even as she asked, “May I?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Aziraphale said, hoping that a bit of possessiveness about his demon would be well tolerated.

Michael pulled her hand back with a disappointed noise.

“It’s nice to finally see yours,” Gabriel said, peering at Crowley. “You’ve done a fine job.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale, unsure of the etiquette involved in meeting another angel’s owned demon, gestured toward the demon standing next to Gabriel. “And this is, er, yours?”

“Oh, yes.” Gabriel leaned back in his chair and looked his demon up and down appreciatively. “This is Rek. Turn around, Rek.”

Rek obediently spun in place. Aziraphale, having no other alternative, took in the sight. Rek wore what looked like a harness of bright gold and white leather, laid over his flat, bare chest. His chocolate brown hair was long and perfectly combed to fall straight and shining over his shoulders. 

“Really, Gabriel, I don’t know why you insist on naming them,” Michael said.

Gabriel shrugged. “Makes it easier. Especially since I have two. Rek and Ayim.”

The two words together made something click for Aziraphale: those were not demonic names, they were words. Ancient Hebrew words. Rek meant  _ empty _ and Ayim meant  _ nothing _ .

Crowley had noticed too. There was a tightness in his jaw, though he remained perfectly still.

“Do yours not have names?” Aziraphale asked Michael, hoping to draw a bit more out of her.

“Of course not,” Michael said. “They mustn’t keep their foul demonic names, and there’s no sense in giving them new ones.”

Aziraphale looked at the demon beside Michael, seemingly stripped of all identity, of all being-ness.  _ Empty _ was about right. It made him want to be sick. 

Since he was already asking questions, Aziraphale figured he might as well continue, and see how far his status as the curious newcomer could take him.

“And, er, what do you do with them? In Heaven, I mean. Do they help with your Heavenly duties?” 

Michael scoffed. “Keeping them is a spiritual discipline, not a petty convenience. We pour out our own grace so that those without may receive.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Michael’s a bit of a...conservative on this point. Mine shine my shoes and press my suits.”

“The keeping of the Fallen is a task to undertake for the glory of our Lord,” Michael said. “Those who think such a mission will lead to anything but more sacrifice and toil are misguided.”

“Right,” Nephriel jumped in, sounding eager to impress Michael. “Actually, they’re a lot of work.”

“That’s why most angels only have a few,” Gabriel explained. “It’s a big responsibility, sharing your grace and managing the reclamation of a fallen one.”

“Doesn’t Sandalphon have five?” Ampharel asked. 

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Sandalphon thinks he can handle anything. Last I heard, he had to keep three of them caged up full time.”

Aziraphale fought the urge to place a steadying hand on Crowley’s shoulder. It was torture, being so close, and so mutually pained, unable to reach out to each other. 

“It may come to that more often,” Michael said darkly, “if we do not turn more of our siblings to this holy way.”

Nephriel sat up, almost interrupting Michael. “That’s what I wanted to meet about!” 

“Yes?” Michael asked.

“There’s someone I work closely with, in Textual Inspiration, she’s been asking me some questions,” Nephriel continued brightly. “She told me she heard that Gabriel tamed some demons, and asked me if that was true. I’ve been talking with her a bit, and she seems pretty curious.”

“That’s great,” Gabriel said, grinning with encouragement.

“Continue your work,” Michael said more evenly. “Draw her deeper into the fold, and keep us updated. When she accepts your invitation, we can arrange a meeting.”

“I’ll be praying for you,” Ampharel said.

Aziraphale’s mind buzzed as he processed the new information. The angels genuinely seemed to believe that they were doing this for the demons’ own good, and that somehow, by violently beating down any individual will on a demon’s part, they were imparting God’s grace. And they were actively trying to recruit other angels into this insane view. It certainly explained Gabriel’s newfound respect for Aziraphale and the way he had triumphantly introduced him to everyone at the party the previous week. 

Realizing that the conversation had gotten away from him, Aziraphale focused on tuning back in. He hoped that Crowley was paying more attention than he was, and that between the two of them they would be able to piece together enough to start fighting this disgusting group.

When Aziraphale managed to rejoin the conversation, Nephriel was speaking. “Did you hear about the one Laviel picked up at auction last week?”

Ampharel replied. “The brand new one?”

“Yes. Apparently it attempted to claw its shard out, left itself a nasty wound.”

Michael had just begun to reply when a high pitched whine came from the corner of the room. All eyes turned to see Nephriel’s demon, glistening with sweat, his arms quaking under the weight of the books. Unable to remain quiet, he made another pained moan.

Nephriel’s face turned pink and she left the table, marching over to the demon with a murderous glare. “You will be silent,” she commanded. Then she reached for the shelf where the remaining  _ Anglorumae _ volumes sat and grabbed a third one. Holding his jaw tightly, she jammed the book into the demon’s mouth, wedging it painfully open, then returned to the table, looking a bit flustered.

“Sorry about that,” she said, taking her seat. “He’s been so  _ difficult _ lately.” She shot him a brutal glare. “I try to train him out of it, but he’s even disobedient in punishment.”

“It’s alright,” Gabriel said, patting her arm. “It’s not easy.”

“Doing the Lord’s work is never easy,” Michael said. “But it is a worthy endeavor, taming these beasts.”

Aziraphale could feel Crowley shudder beside him. He took a deep breath, forcing his own response down. 

“Anyway,” Nephriel said, exhaling sharply as if to shed herself of the moment’s frustration. “We were talking about Laviel’s demon. I heard the same thing - did it really try to pull its shard out?”

“Yep,” Ampharel answered. “Almost managed, too. Laviel says it was half-dead before things all got resolved.”

“Dead?” Aziraphale asked, wondering if there wouldn’t be a simple way to liberate Valen, at the least. “You mean discorporated?”

“No,” Michael said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Gabriel cut in. “Because of the sigil. It blocks everything - all their infernal powers. Only thing they have is the shard. Once it’s in, it becomes the only source of power. And, of course, that’s channeled through us.

“It is God’s will for them,” Michael said in her haughty manner. “Cut off from their demonic powers, they are as close to purified as they can be.” 

“So,” Aziraphale said, silently pleading with Crowley to maintain his composure as he went rigid with fury. “With a sigil, and without a crystal, a demon’s essence will fade and die.”

“Wither at the source,” Gabriel said. “That’s why the Creation Stone is so important. It allows us to help them. To support them. To clear them of their infernal wretchedness and replace it with only what we allow to flow through to them.”

“But,” Aziraphale continued, playing at being simply an interested aficionado, “what would happen to a demon with a stone, but without a marking?”

“Oh, we mark them as soon as they get a shard,” Michael said airily. 

“Yes, but -”

“Don’t you know all this?” Nephriel frowned, skeptical.

“Aziraphale’s new to all this,” Gabriel said, addressing the other angels. “He didn’t even know about the shard ceremony until he came to the gathering with me.”

Nephriel gasped, then looked at Crowley for the first time since they entered. “Does that mean - so he doesn’t have a shard?”

Aziraphale tried to summon all his confidence. “No,” he said, lifting the ribbon for show.

“Not yet,” Gabriel finished. “Aziraphale figured this all out on his own - he’s still learning how we do things.”

“Is he safe?” Nephriel narrowed her eyes at the black fabric in Aziraphale’s hand.

“Unacceptable,” Michael snapped. “We must get the demon his shard as soon as possible.”

“Actually,” Aziraphale said, “I was hoping to continue my research without such a variable. I do believe I’ve worked out some interesting methods of capture.”

“Really?” Nephriel sounded thrilled. “You figured out how to keep one without a shard?”

“I’m telling you,” Gabriel said, “he’s got a real knack for this stuff. When I got to him he already had one living in his house, completely docile. And that’s without any contact with us.”

“Is that true?” Michael remained aloof, but her disapproving sneer was receding. “And how are you faring with that other one, the incorrigible little weasel you took home?”

“I haven’t had any trouble,” Aziraphale replied truthfully.

Michael raised her eyebrows.

Gabe was about to say something, no doubt in praise of Aziraphale’s apparent ruthlessness as a handler of demons, when he was interrupted by a loud clattering noise. Nephriel’s demon had dropped one of the books, and the other two quickly followed as he fell against the wall, arms raised defensively.

“You absolute misery,” she snarled, advancing on the demon. She picked one of the heavy books off the floor and began using it to beat him as he cowered against the wall. “I give you such simple instructions,” she continued, breathing hard with exertion, “and you just can’t manage.” She hit the demon a few more times, the hard smacks echoing through the room as her friends looked on dispassionately.

Finally, she left him in a bloodied mess, snapped her finger to clean the books and return them to their shelf, then turned to the gathered angels. She looked flushed with anger and frustration.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her face and slinking back to the table. “I’ve had him almost seventy years, you’d think I’d have more control.” 

Aziraphale watched her quickly rub her eye with the heel of her hand, and noticed that she didn’t look at all the part of a ruthless slave driver. Rather, she looked upset. Embarrassed, even.

“I just want to help him,” Nephriel moaned. “Sometimes I think I’m just not strong enough to pull him out of the darkness and replace it with grace. He still has so much infernal will.”

“It’s okay,” Ampharel said. “We all have trouble with ours.”

“Really?” She sniffled a bit as she wiped her face again. “I never see Michael’s misbehave.”

“One of Michael’s has been with her for over a thousand years,” Gabriel said. “And her other two, she took and trained herself. Don’t compare yourself to her.”

“I can barely keep one in line,” she said with a miserable pout. “Sometimes I think I’m just not cut out for this path.”

Aziraphale noted that Michael seemed less interested in playing the supportive comforter, and was eyeing the battered demon with derision. “To abandon the Lord’s great mission is heresy,” Michael said.

“You’ll be fine,” said Gabriel. “Have faith. The same God who called you to use your grace to conquer the enemy will bless you with all you need. Just look at Aziraphale, and how She brought him to the truth and then to us. She will provide.”

Aziraphale grimaced in what he hoped was a convincing smile. Being praised by Gabriel like this felt like wearing soaking wet socks.

“I can’t believe you got your own.” Nephriel looked at Aziraphale with awe. “No help, no auction, no trainer.”

“He’s a true miracle,” Gabriel beamed, clearly quite proud of himself for having brought Aziraphale into the fold. “Right under our noses this whole time.”

“Perhaps,” Michael began, and Aziraphale could nearly taste the acid sarcasm in her voice, “since our friend Aziraphale is so skilled in the art of domestication, he could aid you in the management of your difficult charge.”

It was obvious to Aziraphale that Michael’s meaning was one of dismissive mockery. He didn’t think she appreciated his new role as an accomplished, self-taught upstart, and she clearly didn’t trust Gabriel’s assessment of him. Seeing that she was setting him up to fail, and probably hoping to humiliate both him and Nephriel in the process, he instantly demurred.

“No, oh, I couldn’t,” he said. “I’m sure Nephriel has things well in hand.”

But Nephriel, apparently oblivious to Michael’s insult, lit up with a hopeful grin. “Oh, would you?”

“I don’t think -”

Aziraphale then felt a heavy pressure against his foot. Crowley was leaning hard with his bony knee against Aziraphale. It was absurd to bring another enslaved demon home so soon. He was having such little success with getting Valen to relax, and how would he even begin to falsify a “training” effort? He stammered for a second, buying time, but the nudging was getting even more insistent. 

“Please?” Nephriel begged, and Aziraphale thought Crowley might crack his toe out of joint with how aggressively he was jamming his knee down.

“Alright,” Aziraphale sighed, wiggling the feeling back into his foot once Crowley let up. 

“Oh thank you! I could really use the break. Can I bring him by in a few days? I’ll get some stuff together for you.”

  
“Yes, absolutely.” As Nephriel started chattering about her desired goals for the demon, and making plans to transport him to Aziraphale’s home on earth, Aziraphale looked over at the bloodied mess of demon in the corner. He couldn’t blame Crowley for wanting to jump at the chance to take him out of here.

“We need a plan,” Aziraphale said as soon as they were back in the bookshop, having finally extricated themselves from the endless conversation and drawn-out goodbyes. “I didn’t think we’d be hosting another one here so soon.”

“Yeah, well,” Crowley drawled as he tugged the ribbon loose and shook his red curls, “we couldn’t exactly leave him there.”

“I doubt our current houseguest will be very pleased about it, though.” Aziraphale removed Valen’s crystal from around his neck and dropped it into his pocket. “He still seems to believe that you’re scheming against his safety.”

Crowley dropped the ribbon on Aziraphale’s desk and stepped close to embrace the angel. “We’ll figure it out,” he said, sliding his hands around Aziraphale’s waist. “We always do.”

***

Over the next few days, Aziraphale tried to maintain a standard routine of offering Valen breakfast in the morning, then sitting with Crowley through the day, collecting research on binding sigils and angelic cults. Valen, having gathered that any willingness to leave his bedroom and join Aziraphale and Crowley downstairs did please Aziraphale, had taken to standing in the study while they worked, usually just behind Aziraphale’s elbow.

Crowley was less enthused about the new spectre of Valen, straight-backed and silent, though he waited until the other demon was out of earshot to complain to Aziraphale.

  
“Gives me the creeps, him doing that,” he grumbled as they got into bed after a long day of research in preparation for their incoming guest.

“He’s trying,” Aziraphale chided gently. “At least he’s out of his room.”

“Wish he’d say something.” Crowley snuggled into the pillows as if becoming as comfortable as possible would solve all of his existing problems. “He just stares at me when I try and talk.”

“Perhaps if I were to leave you two alone,” Aziraphale mused, settling down beside Crowley with a book. “He might open up to you a bit.”

Crowley climbed into Aziraphale’s lap, nudging the book out of the way. “Well if you’re going to leave me alone with him tomorrow, you better pay me plenty of attention tonight.”

“You fiend,” Aziraphale laughed, rumpling Crowley’s hair and setting his book aside. It was nice, to have Crowley by his side,  _ on _ his side, again. To be facing this dark and daunting project as a team. He snapped his fingers and shut out the lights.

***

The next morning, in an attempt to help Valen feel more comfortable, Aziraphale waited until the demon arrived downstairs, gave it a few minutes for good measure, then loudly declared that he needed to attend to something in the kitchen.

He left behind a strange scene: Valen standing just beside the end table next to Aziraphale’s chair, Crowley relaxed in his own favorite recliner next to the fireplace. Aziraphale wanted more than anything to hover just outside the room and listen in on their conversation, but he forced himself all the way into the kitchen, where he started to make intentionally loud noises with the pots and pans. 

Soon, he heard Crowley’s voice, friendly and casual, though he couldn’t make out the words. Valen sounded unwilling to respond, so Aziraphale took it one step further and stepped out into the garden, slamming the door behind him. 

Knowing better than to try and engage with any of Crowley’s plants, Aziraphale simply wandered, pacing the small area, wondering when it would be appropriate to come back inside. He hoped Crowley would be able to put the other demon at ease in his absence.

When his watch informed him that about forty-five minutes had passed, Aziraphale bid good day to the bumblebee he had been watching bounce around between flowers and made his way back inside. It didn’t surprise him that the house went silent as soon as the door opened, and when he re-entered the library, there was Valen, standing at attention by his chair as if he and the little side table were of the same furniture set.

“Aw, come on,” Crowley groaned. “You can talk around him, really. Talk to him, even. It’s alright.”

Valen ignored him. Aziraphale took his seat with a pleasant smile. “I’m glad you enjoy each other’s company,” he said as he opened his book and lifted the little blue bookmark out. 

But when he reached toward his side table to set the bookmark down, something caught his eye. The book at the top of the stack - nearest Valen’s hand - had been disturbed. Aziraphale picked up the book and examined it. Half-moon divots had been dug into the leather, as if someone had pressed sharp fingernails into the soft material. At one corner, the pages were folded and rumpled.

“What happened here?”

Valen, as usual, would not meet his gaze. He took a step away from the end table, picking at his hands, and shrugged. “I dunno.”

It seemed clear to Aziraphale that the little demon had been nervously fidgeting, possibly without even being aware of it, as he and Crowley talked. He considered dropping the matter entirely, then decided it might do everyone well to demonstrate that, under no circumstances did he intend to harm or ‘punish’ Valen.

“Are you sure? It looks like someone may have touched it by accident. Very easy to muss up these delicate old books.”

Crowley, not being privy to the inner workings of Aziraphale’s plan, rolled his eyes. “Oh come on, angel, it’s obvious he -”

Instantly Valen flew into a stuttering hysteria, pointing at Crowley. “He - he did, I saw him, he did it, it was him!”

Aziraphale turned to Crowley, who looked ready to leap into a defensive argument with the smaller demon, but closed his mouth when he saw the look on Aziraphale’s face.

“Crowley, have you been handling this book?”

Crowley squinted at the title. “ _ Ancient Priestly Rites of Mesopotamia _ ? No, angel, had plenty of that first time around.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale set the book down. Valen had one pinky finger in his mouth and was shaking so hard Aziraphale thought he might come apart.

Intent on appearing as unthreatening as possible, Aziraphale remained in his seat, relaxed. “Here is what I think, love. I think you were talking with Crowley in my absence, and I think that was difficult and nerve-wracking for you. And I think your nervous energy dealt my book a bit of a blow.”

Valen’s eyes were huge and streaming tears, but he didn’t move. Aziraphale continued. 

“I think you didn’t tell me what happened because you’re afraid of being punished. And I think you blamed Crowley to try and keep yourself safe.” Aziraphale took a deep breath before continuing. “But here are some things I want you to know. One, you are safe here and no one will hurt you for any reason, least of all me. Two, while these books are precious to me and I do ask all guests to use caution with them, they can handle a bit of miracle-assisted restoration every few centuries.”

He snapped his fingers, making Valen back abruptly into the bookshelf behind him. The book returned to its previous state. Truth be told, Aziraphale did hate to use magics on his books - human-made objects didn’t take to it all that well over time - but it was a small matter.

“There, you see? All is mended, and all is well. Accidents will happen.”

Valen looked absolutely stunned. Aziraphale hoped that at least a small portion of his words had made it through to the demon. 

The next part, he said primarily for Crowley’s benefit. “As one last note, I must ask you not to bear false witness against Crowley. I understand that you are frightened, and no one can deny you have the right. I must respect your valiant efforts to avoid undeserved pain -” at this Aziraphale looked apologetically at Crowley, who raised his eyebrows but did not interrupt, bless him “-but this is his home, he is my beloved, and I can assure you he will offer you nothing but respect. I must ask you to do the same.”

Having finished his monologue, Aziraphale leaned back in his seat, hands resting on his thighs. “Alright, then. Seems the matter of the unfortunate book has been resolved.”

“Swell,” Crowley said. 

“I’m going to return to my studies,” Aziraphale said. “You two are welcome to continue your conversation.”

Aziraphale kept his eyes trained directly on the book in front of him, suspecting that any attention directed at Valen would only spook him more. He was far too distracted to read, however, despite his valiant attempts at pretending. 

He only looked up when he heard Crowley’s voice, tinged with concern, asking “Hey, you okay?”

Aziraphale followed Crowley’s gaze to Valen, who looked terrible. His face had gone deathly pale and was covered in a sickly sheen of sweat. His knees wobbled as if he might topple over at any moment. His chest was heaving with ragged, shallow breaths. 

At Crowley’s voice, Valen jumped, falling backwards against the bookshelf. Crowley hopped out of his chair and moved toward him, arms outstretched as if to catch the trembling demon. But this sent Valen fleeing, scrambling madly away. Near-blind and clumsy with terror, he tripped and went down, catching his forehead on the sharp corner of the end table as he fell. Blood rushed from the wound. 

“Shit! Angel!” Crowley slowed his pursuit as Valen crawled behind Aziraphale’s chair as if to hide. Aziraphale quickly came around the other side and knelt beside the demon, who was clutching his head and gasping as if all the air had gone out of the room.

“You’re alright, it’s okay.” Aziraphale pulled Valen into his arms, smearing blood onto his jacket, and the demon squirmed feebly, still holding the gash in his head.

“Can you heal it?” Crowley stood over them, looking quite unsure of what to do. 

Aziraphale looked up at him, trying to make sense of the situation. “Not without that blasted stone - it’s upstairs, on the dresser in his room.”

Crowley turned and raced upstairs, returning near-breathless a moment later with the necklace hanging from his hand. He tossed it to Aziraphale, who grabbed it and healed Valen, cleaning up the blood alongside the larger miracle.

“There, there,” Aziraphale whispered. Valen, having apparently worn himself out, was limp in Aziraphale’s lap, still struggling for breath. 

Crowley brought a blanket from the sofa over, then sat down beside Aziraphale to lay the blanket over Valen’s body. Aziraphale snapped his fingers and conjured a glass of ice water, which he held to the demon’s lips. 

“Here, darling. Have some of this.”

Valen only twitched his face away, pressing his lips together. Aziraphale sighed.

“Try this,” Crowley said. He took one of Valen’s hands and wrapped it around the cold glass, then repeated the motion with the other hand. He put his hands on top of Valen’s, supporting the glass and pressing the smaller demon’s palms against the cool surface.

Slowly, Valen’s breathing steadied as he clutched the cold cup. Aziraphale tried rubbing gentle circles over the demon’s blanket-covered back. The odd trio remained on the floor, Aziraphale holding Valen, Crowley sat beside them, in the dimly lit space behind Aziraphale’s overstuffed chair. The only sounds in the room were Valen’s soft exhalations and the ice cubes clinking against the glass.

After a while, Crowley spoke. “Come on,” he said, firm but gentle. “Can’t lie here all night. Let’s get you to bed, yeah?” He tugged the glass from Valen’s fingers and stood up. The demon was no longer struggling to breathe, but remained alert, his gray eyes piercing as he stared out from under the blanket.

At Crowley’s signal, Aziraphale followed, rising from the floor with the blanket-wrapped Valen in his arms. Wordlessly, they ascended the stairs, and Aziraphale tucked the demon into the bed - a nest of rumpled blankets and mounds of pillows - as Crowley set the glass on the nightstand. 

“How did you know that would work? With the ice, I mean?” Aziraphale asked after they had gone back downstairs and begun to pick up the books Valen had scattered on the floor in his panic.

“Little battlefield trick,” Crowley said, reshelving a volume of apothecary recipes. “Shocks the system, makes you calm down.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale straightened a rug with his toe. It pained him that someone might feel here, in his cozy library, as if they were under wartime threat.

With no further discussion, they finished their tidying and retired to the sofa, cuddled up against each other, their companionship heavy with the knowledge that, should their efforts fail against two of the greatest archangels in Heaven, Crowley and all his brethren would be dragged forever into the same world that had left poor Valen’s heart and mind in such tatters.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale struggles with the fact that Valen doesn't trust him, and works on ways to try and help Valen shed the fear and submission that have been beaten into him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay friends, this chapter almost didn't go up on time. My area has been on quarantine lockdown for about two weeks now and it's really hard to focus and write with my kid home 24/7 and my own routine getting completely fucked. So this chapter is shorter than the previous two, and less edited.
> 
> Chapters may be shorter going forward, but I still really want to stick to the weekly posting schedule, though, because this community is a huge ray of light in my life these days.
> 
> I'm sure that everyone else is going through a similar thing, so if you're feeling more overwhelmed/less inspired than usual, please be gentle to yourself. Stay home, wash your hands, and keep on keeping on!

Aziraphale spent the night deeply troubled by Valen’s behavior, and by his own apparent inability to provide the little demon with a sense of calm and safety.

He had skimmed through the sheaf of paperwork handed over to him when he came into possession of Valen’s shard, and he returned to it now, slipping out of bed once Crowley fell asleep and taking a seat at his desk downstairs. He retrieved the packet from its hiding place in his desk, set his reading glasses on his nose, and searched for the keys to Valen’s personality, so buried as it was by fear and pain.

According to Valen’s previous angelic owners, Valen was prone to outbursts of destructive energy, frequently told lies, and was “afflicted by a nervous disposition that prevented his appropriate reception of angelic grace and accompanying instructions.” From what Aziraphale could tell, Valen was not considered openly defiant or aggressive, but “nearly untrainable due to an obsessive self-consideration” - a euphemism, he supposed, for the survival instinct any living being should be expected to cling to.

Valen’s file also noted that he had a “poor memory,” and would frequently “fall into the appearance of having submitted to righteousness only to deviate from the goodly pattern after a number of days without incident.”

He had seen the demons standing by Gabriel and Michael, how vacant their eyes were, how deeply settled into their new roles they seemed. If Valen obeyed his ‘masters’ out of a desire to avoid pain, rather than a brainwashed sense that those angels’ commands carried some kind of redemptive power, it would make sense that the angels would single him out as a problematic case.

What made the difference, Aziraphale wondered, between demons whose psyches resisted captivity despite all attempts to break them, and demons who succumbed so fully? Was it only a matter of time, or was there something in the varying constitutions of the enslaved? Or was it the so-called  _ techniques _ employed by different angels?

The questions were nearly unendurable to consider, and Aziraphale regretted every step that had brought him into this dark world. And yet he could not, would not, turn away.

Aziraphale sighed and picked up the papers again, four centuries of notes about the systematic wearing down of a will, a spirit, a  _ being _ . He could hardly stand it.

Valen had been in “conflict” with other demons kept in the same household, according to a number of reports, and had been “re-homed” a handful of times for this reason. That explained his fretfulness about Crowley, Aziraphale supposed.

Multiple times, the various reports accused Valen of things like “vandalism,” “gross self-mutilation,” “a spiteful attitude toward the master’s property (including its own flesh),” and “destructive mischief reflecting the wretched thing’s demonic traits.” Previous angelic masters had attempted to curb these “foul habits” by restraining Valen’s hands, “stoppering his mouth,” caging him, and punishing the behaviors with all manner of torture, with no apparent success. One appeared to have considered removing his teeth and fingernails as a permanent solution. 

Aziraphale dropped the heavy sheaf and set his reading glasses aside so that he could rub his eyes. It was a lot to take in. And if Aziraphale was this affected by simply reading about it, knowing that Valen had lived the contents of these reports for hundreds of years was enough to rend his soul in two.

The sun was rising, coming sickly-bright through the gaps in the window shades. Aziraphale had hoped to come up with something, anything, that might help Valen settle in and begin to recover, by the time both demons woke up. He thought about Valen’s cracked and bleeding fingertips, the way he worried his own skin between his teeth. And then there was the matter of the book, the way Valen had picked at it unconsciously in his agitation and then melted down at the realization of what he had done.

It wasn’t that Aziraphale wanted to break the demon of the self-soothing habits. Far be it from Aziraphale to remove any source of comfort Valen had been able to retain. But they also seemed to stress the little demon. Perhaps, Aziraphale thought, he might be able to provide something for Valen to hold insteadl? Something the demon would have full freedom to handle, a safer receptacle for his fidgeting?

Hoping that Crowley and Valen would remain asleep for a few hours longer, Aziraphale slipped out of the shop, miracling some human money into his pocket as he did so, and made his way down the SoHo street. Most of the shops were just opening. Aziraphale wandered into a variety of stores, finding nothing of use, until he came upon a shop that sold all manner of toys and objects intended for human children. 

“Hello,” Aziraphale said, approaching the young woman at the till. “Do you have anything that might serve as a suitable...comfort object?”

She looked at him quizzically. “You mean, like a lovie?”

Aziraphale did not know what a ‘lovie’ was, but he had to assume that the young woman in charge of the children’s shop was well versed in such things.

“Yes,” he said. 

She led him to a shelf covered in small plush animals. “How old is the kid?”

“Er.” Aziraphale busied himself by picking up an oddly proportioned stuffed giraffe. “Is that relevant?”

“Well,” the shopgirl said, her confusion not abating, “if it’s for a really little baby, you want to be careful of hard bits, like this -” she tapped on the button eye of a toy elephant “- or anything that could come off and be a choking hazard.”

She pointed to another toy, this time a cream-colored teddy bear wearing a blue knitted sweater with tiny details down the front, including a miniscule pocket and a row of pearly white buttons. “Like that,” she finished. “Cute for an older kid, but not for babies.”

Aziraphale dropped the giraffe and snatched up the bear. It was perfect. He just adored it. He could imagine Valen’s fingers fiddling with the buttons, running over the knit texture of the sweater. “I’ll have this one, please.”

Fortunately, the young woman did not ask any more questions as she exchanged the bear for a handful of human money and put it in a tidy paper bag with tissue paper. “I hope they love it,” she said as she handed it over.

“Me too,” Aziraphale replied.

***

Crowley was still sleeping when Aziraphale returned home, but Valen was awake and dressed in a simple pair of heather grey slacks and a white t-shirt, still on backwards, sitting idly on the edge of his bed. He sat up straight when Aziraphale arrived and tapped gently on the doorjamb. Valen never closed the door, but Aziraphale was trying to give him as much privacy as possible. 

“Good morning,” Aziraphale said cheerily. “May I come in?”

Valen looked startled, then confused. Finally, he nodded.

Aziraphale entered the bedroom but did not sit down on the bed. 

“I got you a present.” Aziraphale held out the paper bag, tissue paper poking out from the top. 

Valen looked at the bag with dread. Slowly, he reached out to take it. He set it heavily in his lap.

“Go ahead,” Aziraphale said. “Open it!”

Valen reached in and tugged out the sheet of tissue paper, holding it delicately between his fingers, then looked up at Aziraphale as if waiting for instruction.

Aziraphale hadn’t realized the simple task of receiving a gift would be so overwhelming for the little demon. He had been free for thousands of years before his capture, hadn’t he? Certainly they had presents in the fifteenth century? But Aziraphale forced his disappointment down. It didn’t matter how he had wanted this to go. What mattered was that Valen was staring at him helplessly while holding a sheet of tissue paper as if it would turn into a vicious cobra at any moment. 

“That’s not the gift, dear - just - you can set that down.” Aziraphale took the paper and dropped it to the floor. Valen’s eyes followed it. “Look, here.” He pulled the teddy bear out of its bag, tossed the bag aside, and offered the bear to Valen. 

Valen took it, holding it stiffly out from his body. “Thank you,” he said, though with none of the sincerity Aziraphale remembered from after his haircut. 

“It’s for you,” Aziraphale said, “to hold, see?” Aziraphale mimed cuddling a stuffed animal, and Valen mimicked him, pulling the bear closer to his chest.

“I thought,” Aziraphale continued, feeling awkward, “that you might like something to - to hold, when you feel fidgety. Something that’s all yours to touch. It’s got little buttons, see?” Aziraphale pointed at the bear’s tiny sweater. Valen set the pads of his fingers on the buttons as if they were piano keys.

“Alright, then.” Aziraphale scratched behind his ear, unsure what to do next. He began to back out of the room. “I hope you like it. If there’s anything else you need, please, don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll be - I’ll be just down the hall.”

Valen watched him, unmoving, his two small hands wrapped stiffly around the bear. 

Aziraphale finally shuffled out, feeling exhausted by the whole encounter, then climbed back into bed with Crowley.

“Whazzat?” Crowley rolled over and half-opened his eyes as Aziraphale nuzzled up beside him.

“Good morning to you too, dear.”

“Mmmph,” Crowley said into the pillow.

“Yes, indeed. Sorry to wake you.”

“ ‘vrything okay?”

“Yes, love. Just nipped out for a morning errand. Bought Valen a present. A darling little teddy bear.”

“Why?” Crowley lifted his head now, his curiosity overcoming his morning drowsiness.

“I thought he might like something for his hands, you know. To hold, to play with.”

“Instead of your books,” Crowley said knowingly.

Aziraphale flushed with embarrassment. “Instead of his own skin, too. Poor thing, he was so upset yesterday, and he’s just always so nervous.”

“You could always give him something to do,” Crowley suggested. “He’s always asking me what his  _ duties _ are.”

“Absolutely not! He is a guest here. I won’t be assigning him chores like - like some kind of - whatever he thinks I am.”

Crowley shrugged, which was a more dramatic gesture given that his shoulders were covered by a pile of blankets. “Did he like it?”

“The bear? I’m not sure. He didn’t seem to understand the purpose of the thing.”

“Hm.” Crowley, apparently done with the conversation, curled up on his side, pressed his body against Aziraphale’s, and gathered the covers over his head. Aziraphale settled in, his arms wrapped around Crowley, but he didn’t feel nearly as relaxed as the demon seemed to be.

Was Crowley right, perhaps, that some instructions might do Valen some good? It felt abhorrent, especially since he knew that Valen would receive any request, even any suggestion, as an order. Aziraphale had tried to include Valen in the household, inviting him to join at every meal, directing conversational questions his way - but no matter what he did, the little demon remained always on edge, with darting eyes and frantic hands.

It seemed he was happiest when left alone in his bedroom, where he spent most of his time in his bed surrounded by mounds of pillows and blankets, as well as towels and clothing - everything soft that had been in the guest room and the entire contents of the wardrobe. 

Perhaps, Aziraphale wondered, he could come up with something for Valen to do from the comfort of his odd nest. A loophole, of sorts, where Valen’s ‘task’ was to attend to his own pleasure. 

He resolved to think on that until he was satisfied with a solution. In the meantime, he and Crowley had their breakfast and retired to the study to resume their preparations for Nephriel’s demon to arrive, as the scheduled drop-off was that evening. Aziraphale, having figured out his plans for Valen while he and Crowley attended to their new houseguest, was seated at his desk, delicately cutting out images from old magazines that had piled up in the corner of the bookshop and pasting them into a blank book. Crowley was searching the bookshelves for anything he thought might contain clues about the angelic magic at work, and adding “acid-free” bookmarks to anything he wanted Aziraphale to take a closer look at.

Valen joined them around half past ten, padding downstairs barefoot and standing silently beside Aziraphale’s desk. He still held the stuffed bear in both hands, held out from his chest, his fingers in a cage around the middle of the thing. 

“Good morning, Valen dear,” Aziraphale greeted him over the rims of his reading glasses. 

“Good morning, Sir,” Valen mumbled.

Aziraphale was about to gently remind Valen for the umpteenth time that there was no need to call him  _ Sir _ when Crowley spoke. “Whatcha got there?” He pointed to the bear in Valen’s hands.

Valen yanked it back, clutching it to his chest, though he continued to hold it like a fragile thing.

Crowley ignored this and continued talking. “A bear, huh? Looks cuddly.”

Crowley waited a beat, giving Valen time to answer, then turned back to the bookshelves. Aziraphale could see relax. It puzzled him, how Crowley could tolerate Valen’s fear and suspicion. Aziraphale was always tripping over himself, terrorizing Valen without meaning to. He hated to see anyone so uncomfortable in his presence, and was always trying to convince Valen of his good will. It drove him to distraction knowing that there was a being who saw him as a slaver, a vicious force, a cruel master. It seemed beyond rude - immoral, even - to let that situation lie, and not to spend every moment bashing himself against it like a moth against a lighted windowpane. 

And yet, there was Crowley, apparently able to shrug off the weight of Valen’s fright and pay attention to something besides the misery emanating from him. Even more baffling was that it worked. Valen was far more at ease when Crowley and Aziraphale were simply going about their business than when someone was attempting to attend to his comfort.

This went against everything Aziraphale believed about hospitality, and goodness, and etiquette, and safety, and many other closely held values of his. Many of his core beliefs were being shaken lately, and Aziraphale’s mind was more troubled than it had ever been, at least since the First War.

But he tried not to let his agitation show, and continued his collaging project while Crowley moved around the library and Valen stood at his self-assigned post. Aziraphale noted with great disappointment that Valen occasionally lifted a hand to his mouth to bite at his fingers, but never did anything with the bear besides hold it in front of his chest.

Aziraphale finished around lunchtime. He would have adored a leisurely lunch with Crowley - perhaps a tall sandwich piled with roast beef - but it wouldn’t be kind to make Valen wait through that. 

“Alright,” he said cheerily, “that’s a morning’s work done. Valen, would you be so kind as to join me in your bedroom? I have something I’d like to show you.”

Valen gave a quick nod and nearly raced upstairs. Aziraphale hung back a moment, speaking to Crowley. “Would you mind gathering anything soft - blankets, pillows, all the like - and bring them up to Valen’s room? I think he would appreciate more to nestle with.”

“Sure thing, angel.” 

They ascended the stairs together, then Crowley wandered off in the direction of the linen closet while Aziraphale made his way to Valen’s room, his collage book held under one arm. 

He found Valen standing beside the bed, still holding the bear like some kind of precious but dangerous object. Aziraphale frowned at Valen’s stiff posture. The demon’s arms must be sore and exhausted, he realized, from remaining in that position for so long; his elbows out, the bear held before him. 

“Do...do you like the bear?” Aziraphale asked lamely.

Valen nodded.

Aziraphale did not believe him.

“I have something else to show you,” Aziraphale said, presenting the book he had made. “And a favor to ask you.”

Valen stared, his eyes piercing, focused entirely on Aziraphale.

“I, well, I made you this,” Aziraphale continued. He opened the book and showed it to Valen, balanced awkwardly in his palm. “It’s got pictures - lots of pictures, of people doing things. All sorts of things.” He flipped through a few pages, pointing at the images he had pasted in, of people eating, embracing, bicycling, reading, and all manner of activities. 

Then, with the hand not holding the book, he produced a marker from his pocket. “I’d like you to - if you’re willing, of course - circle anything that you think you’d like to do. You can also draw in the back, if there’s anything I didn’t include. I left some blank pages.”

Valen looked from the book, to Aziraphale, back to the book, back to Aziraphale. 

“Here, uh, I’ll just - I’ll leave it here, okay?” Aziraphale set the book down on top of the dresser, with the marker next to it. He patted the book, unsure why he was doing it, and feeling very inept. Valen’s tension just continued to increase, and Aziraphale didn’t know what to do next.

Blessedly, Crowley arrived in the doorway just then, his arms laden with blankets and pillows from all over the flat.

He dumped them on the floor in a big heap. “You wanted these, angel?”

“Yes! Yes, thank you.” Aziraphale turned to Valen, energized by Crowley’s presence. “I have one more thing to - to suggest, to you. Crowley and I will be having another houseguest for the next few days, and I was worried that it might be overwhelming or unpleasant for you. Of course you’re always welcome down in the study with us, or at the table for a meal, but if you would prefer to stay here, well, I wanted to help make things more comfortable.”

Valen looked at the pile of blankets and pillows. He did not move.

“You want him to what,” Crowley asked, “build a blanket fort?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “If that’s what he finds most pleasing.”

“Well he can’t do that with the room like this.” Crowley had a glint of mischief in his smile as he snapped his fingers and the small, plain bed in Valen’s room suddenly became a canopied four-poster bed.

Valen watched this unfold, a silent but obvious horror spreading across his face. He seemed to be holding his breath. The stuffed bear shook in his trembling hands.

“Alright then,” Crowley said, acting as if he were entirely oblivious to Valen’s state. “Let’s get started!”

Aziraphale, no longer able to cope with Valen’s anguish and his own powerlessness to understand, let alone alleviate, it, stammered through an excuse and left the room. He hovered outside the doorway for a while, listening to Crowley’s silly chatter and Valen’s timid responses, until even his tolerance for that ran out, and he retired to his favorite reading spot.

A few hours passed. Aziraphale got no reading done and tallied four instances of Crowley’s laughter coming from upstairs. He had just given up on reading and set the book in his lap when Crowley shouted down the stairs. 

“Oi, angel! Come on up and see this!”

The sight that greeted him was equal parts absurd and delightful. Together, the two demons had completely transformed the guest bedroom into a blanket-drenched warren. Warm sunlight filtered through the layers, giving the room a dim, cozy glow.

Somehow, Aziraphale noticed, there was no tartan in the entire hodgepodge of fabrics. While the pattern was ever-present in Aziraphale’s wardrobe and personal decor choices, it was absent from Valen’s room. He realized belatedly that when he had grabbed bedding or the like for Valen, he had avoided any tartan, and it seemed Crowley had done the same.

Peeking in through a blanket, Aziraphale saw Valen sitting in the center of the bed, surrounded by mounds of pillows and the soft walls of hanging blankets. He looked  _ happy _ , smiling in a way Aziraphale had never seen before.

This expression lasted for the mere instant it took Aziraphale to see it. Immediately upon noticing Aziraphale, Valen jumped back to his wary, servile affect.

“What do you think?” Crowley asked expectantly.

Aziraphale swallowed, then forced chipperness into his voice. “It looks lovely,” he said.

And It was true - they had done an amazing job, and Aziraphale could tell that this new, odd little structure was far closer to Valen’s preferred surroundings than the room in its previous state. And he was thrilled that his plan had worked, and given Valen permission to seek after his own comfort without forcing Aziraphale to give too direct an order.

“Alright, I’ll leave you to settle in,” Crowley finished, ducking under a blanket to join Aziraphale. “Good idea,” Crowley whispered as they headed down the stairs.

Aziraphale sighed happily and took Crowley’s hand in his. “Thank you, dear. You’re the one who made it work.”

Crowley opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. 

Whatever he was going to say in response to Aziraphale’s statement of gratitude fell away, and instead became a resolution through gritted teeth:

“Best get ready, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some folks have asked for references for what Valen looks like, and the best "faceclaim" I've found so far is the model Janis Ancens (but Valen has much lighter hair and very grey eyes). So those sort of delicate and angular features, but with slightly more 'supernatural' coloring.
> 
> Here are some good Valen shots:
> 
> [Valen Reference One](https://66.media.tumblr.com/ece062cbdb8e38939a3d84432935e968/tumblr_mgzeqaNUTh1qaq1f3o1_540.jpg)  
> [Valen Reference Two](https://66.media.tumblr.com/72068b0d9463f01afbea0a129ea5cfb8/tumblr_n1sarjFnPl1qze5a0o1_540.jpg)  
> [Valen Reference Three](https://66.media.tumblr.com/b5a16397d928e3aad4d5ff29e365b904/tumblr_mgktzdtdNx1r9rffqo1_540.jpg)  
> [Valen Reference Four](https://66.media.tumblr.com/756d2b1b486fd85c0c72d8393204fa84/tumblr_mgm9qqCZsl1rjzw1co1_500.jpg)  
> [Valen Reference Five](https://66.media.tumblr.com/a1afb7bdc817ecd9524e185014f0a93c/tumblr_mgmnzi6ivl1qcvru5o1_540.jpg)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nephriel, believing Aziraphale to be a gifted trainer of demons based on Crowley's cooperation, drops her charge off at the bookshop. The demon, believing much the same thing, expects something much different from Aziraphale's "hospitality."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay friends, I know this chapter is a week late and shorter than usual. This quarantine mess has me off my writing game. I think that going forward chapters will just generally be shorter than the first few, and/or might post on a more haphazard schedule.
> 
> I started to write "I apologize," but honestly I think we are all in the same boat and decided not to. If you're struggling right now, that's completely legit. I won't strengthen anyone else's shame monsters by making it something to apologize for. 
> 
> Let's all be good to each other _and ourselves_ right now. Don't push yourself too hard or expect the same from yourself as before this. That includes reading, commenting, writing, everything. I mean it. Make taking care of yourself the priority.

Crowley took his agreed-upon position, kneeling silently on the floor, as Aziraphale opened the door.

There was Nephriel, looking harried, and her demon behind her, hunched and stumbling under heavy chains.

“Welcome, welcome, do come in.” Aziraphale ushered them inside, doing his best to ignore Nephriel’s judgmental expression as she looked around the cluttered interior of his bookshop. 

Once the door was closed behind them, the demon fell hard onto his knees, hitting the floor with a metallic jangling. Aziraphale took in the sight - a broad chested demon with thick black curls, and a close-cropped beard. Aziraphale couldn’t see the demon’s eyes with his head bowed like this, just a dark pool of shadows under his heavy brows. He wore nothing but a pile of chains draped around his body, a thick iron collar, and manacles holding his hands in front of him.

He was in a bad way: his olive skin was dotted with cuts and bruises, his lip split, his visible muscles straining under the weight of the chains.

Aziraphale wanted to run to the demon, to place a healing touch on his sagging shoulders, to just fix all of this. No - if he was honest with himself, what he really wanted to do was turn and run the other way, out into the garden, and never see such a sight ever again. But he couldn’t do that either.

“So good to see you again,” he said to Nephriel, wrenching his eyes from the miserable demon on his floor and plastering a false smile onto his face. 

“Thanks so much for taking him,” Nephriel said, sounding relieved. “I really need the help.”

“Of course, of course.” Aziraphale’s hands fluttered nervously. “Happy to, always happy to.” 

He wished she would just leave already, but Nephriel kept chattering. “I’ve sent him with extra chains, see - he’s been very difficult lately, so just use what you need.” 

“Yes, indeed,” Aziraphale said. From the corner of his eye he could see Valen peeping out over the stairs, and he hated to think what the little demon must be concluding from this scene.

“Here’s his crystal,” Nephriel continued. She handed him a piece of gnarled olive wood - the object he remembered seeing in his Heavenly quarters - with a cracked bit of Yatsarite embedded in one of the whorls. The wood, he could tell, was from the Holy Land, and the natural curves and spirals of the wood were lovely. It fit perfectly in his hand. He had to confess, it was a beautiful thing. 

What a perversion of loveliness and holiness. Guardian’s rage filled Aziraphale as he gripped the wood in his hand. He wanted to leap on Nephriel, shove it down her throat, beat her down, treat her as slavery’s representative, here, in his home. 

He did not. Instead, he turned it over in his hand and smiled. 

“And here are the keys to the chains.” Nephriel dropped a key-laden ring into his hand. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale managed. He pocketed both items, lest he betray his own disgust by crushing them in his fist. 

“Don’t let him take his wings out,” Nephriel cautioned. “He’ll insist he needs to preen them or something, but don’t listen. I don’t ever let him take his other form, honestly. It just causes too many problems.”

“I see.”

“Just one more thing,” Nephriel said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and looking around the room nervously. “You’ll need to - see his hands, there in front of him? You’ll need to keep them there, and keep a good eye on him, even with the chains. The other day I caught him, well, look.” 

Nephriel grabbed the demon’s head and forced it down, exposing his upper back and pointing to his shard scar and sigil. A long, narrow bruise ran through the tattoo, deep purple in the center and bloody-red at the edges. “He tried to remove his shard,” she whispered. “I left him alone for a minute, all chained up and everything, and then I find him rubbing against the corner of my table!”

“Oh my,” Aziraphale said, his voice hushed with horror.

“Please don’t tell Michael and Gabriel,” Neprhiel begged. “I usually have him under control, I do. But it’s been really hard lately.”

Aziraphale had no comprehension of the odd politics behind this slave owning ring, but he knew everything would come undone, and he and Crowley would be found out, if he made any misstep when it came to power and secrecy.

But he had to say something to reassure Nephriel enough to get her out of his bookshop. So, though he was unsure about the wisdom of this promise, Aziraphale laid a friendly hand on the other angel’s shoulder.

“It’s alright,” he soothed, the words curdling on his tongue. “You just have yourself a break.” Aziraphale began to gently turn Nephriel around, leading her toward the front door. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

“Thank you,” she said, looking up at Aziraphale with genuine relief and gratitude. He felt a confused softening toward her for a fleeting moment, until she turned to the demon kneeling on the floor and gave him a brutal smack to the head, sending him toppling onto all fours. “Behave,” she hissed at him, before flashing Aziraphale a smile and turning toward the door.

“Oh!” Aziraphale stopped her with a shout, having just realized something. “What’s his name?”

Nephriel glanced dismissively at the demon and shrugged. “Never gave it one.”

“Yes, but - I mean, what’s  _ his _ name?”

“Don’t know. Michael trained him, she might know. Why?”

It would later occur to Aziraphale that he might have spun some tale about magical bindings using a demon’s name. But in the moment, he only said lamely, “No reason.”

“See you soon,” Nephriel called over her shoulder as she shut the door behind her. 

As soon as he heard the door latch, Aziraphale rushed to the chained and beaten demon. Crowley was beside him, having moved just as quickly. “We’ll get these off you,” Aziraphale whispered. He pulled half the keys off the ring and handed them to Crowley, and together they had the chains, manacles and collar off in less than a minute. 

Once the chains were gone, tossed in a pile on the foyer floor, the demon straightened up, kneeling on the floor with his hands on his thighs, neck still bowed. His breathing was steady, but his muscles were tense, as if anticipating something.

Without the chains, Aziraphale could now see just how badly beaten the demon was. Next to him, Crowley was grimacing sympathetically at the state of him.

Aziraphale pulled the crystal out of his pocket and held it where the demon could see it. “May I heal you, please?” He reached out a tentative hand, as if to rest it on the demon’s shoulder, but did not touch him. 

The demon looked up at him, just barely, eyes raised just enough that he could see Aziraphale through his thick brows. 

“I’d like to heal you,” Aziraphale said, slowly, gently. “But I don’t want to do anything without your permission.”

“You can trust him, mate,” Crowley said, his tone more familiar than Aziraphale expected. Perhaps because Crowley had been the one to push Aziraphale to take this demon home, he had been far more invested in this work than he had with Valen when the other demon first arrived.

At Crowley’s voice, the demon lifted his chin slightly and gave a small but clear nod. Aziraphale closed his hand around the wood with its inset stone and sent as much healing as he could through it, working also to include peace and comfort.

The wounds littering the demon’s flesh disappeared, though the severe bruise carved between his shoulderblades did not fade entirely. 

“Alright,” Aziraphale said, straightening up. “Come, come, let’s get you something to wear.” He reached a hand down to help the demon up, but he rose without assistance, standing straight-backed and solid.

“Bet your old robe would fit him, angel,” Crowley said with a nudging tone.

“Yes, right, of course.” Aziraphale rushed upstairs to grab his giant fluffy bathrobe, powder blue with white trim, and bring it back. Valen was nowhere to be seen, but the blankets hanging in his doorway swayed slightly.

When Aziraphale returned, Crowley had brought the demon into the kitchen. Crowley was seated, the demon was standing, and a nearly intolerable silence filled the room.

“Here you are.” Aziraphale handed him the robe and watched as the demon stiffly stuck his arms into it. 

“Do sit down, please,” Aziraphale said, gesturing to the dining table. The demon sat, his hands flat on his knees, his gaze trained at a hard 45 degree angle down at the wood grain of the table.

“Can I get you some tea? Something to eat?”

For an instant, Aziraphale saw a flicker of something like scorn on the demon’s face. A tiny sniff of air, a raised lip, a rolled eye. Then, as quickly as it came, the scoffing attitude disappeared, replaced by a blank expression.

“Demons are vessels to be emptied,” he intoned flatly, still staring at the table. “Further befoulment with gross matter is counter to the divine purpose.”

After finishing, the demon seemed almost satisfied with himself, as if he was certain he had passed a far-too-simple test. 

“Well that’s a load of rubbish,” Crowley said. “One coffee for me, if you please. Heavy on the cream.”

Aziraphale set about making Crowley a coffee, and piling a plate high with pastries he had bought the day before just for the occasion of welcoming a new guest. 

“He’s right,” Aziraphale said, taking his seat and sliding Crowley his coffee. “We don’t believe any of that here.”

Aziraphale set the plate of pastries down in the center of the table. Beside it, he put the piece of olive wood. “May I ask, what is your name?”

“Demons are vessels to be emptied,” he repeated in the same lifeless intonation. 

“Please,” Aziraphale said softly. “What you’ve heard - what you think - about me, it’s not true. It’s alright, you’re safe here.”

“My name’s Crowley,” Crowley said, his voice loud and chipper. “And that’s Aziraphale.”

“You’re alright,” Aziraphale coaxed. “Would you tell us your name?”

“Ebarak,” the demon said in a clipped tone. “My name is - was - Ebarak.”

“Well it’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Ebarak,” Aziraphale said. “Though I wish it was under nicer circumstances.”

“We’re not part of this slavery madness.” Crowley reached for a palmier and crunched into it, talking through a mouthful of pastry. “Brought you here to give you a break, really. Help you out a bit. Seems that angel you live with is a real tosser.”

Ebarak finally lifted his eyes, looking straight at Crowley with a piercing, skeptical gaze. 

“Go on,” Crowley said, pushing the plate of pastries toward him. “You like food? Have some.”

Ebarak looked at Aziraphale, who nodded encouragingly. 

Holding eye contact with Aziraphale, Ebarak reached for the plate, slowly. 

Aziraphale fought to contain his excitement at seeing their new guest willing to partake of his hospitality. He worried that an outburst might startle Ebarak too badly, so he sat on his hands and tried not to grin like a madman.

Ebarak held one hand over a croissant, hovering without touching it. He stared at Aziraphale, his eyes a hard, dark brown.

Aziraphale nodded again. 

Ebarak lifted the pastry from the plate, his eyes still locked with Aziraphale’s. 

He raised it to his mouth, then paused, as if waiting for a reaction.

Aziraphale only watched expectantly. 

Crowley started munching loudly on a biscuit. He was never one for sweet treats, but Aziraphale could tell the tension in the room was getting to be too much.

Ebarak opened his mouth, and then, with excruciating slowness, he took a bite, never looking away from Aziraphale as he did. His eyes were suspicious and alert, nearly penetrating in their focus.

Ebarak chewed and swallowed, and Aziraphale could see a ripple of pleasure across the demon’s face at the taste of the croissant. He took another bite, and seemed to relax as he ate. 

“They are good, aren’t they?” Aziraphale broke the silence in the room. “I always say, there’s nothing like a flaky, buttery pastry-”

Ebarak suddenly dropped his half-eaten croissant onto the table, then clutched at his stomach. His eyes met Aziraphale’s again, and this time, they were ablaze with fury and betrayal.

“What’s wrong? Ebarak, what’s wrong?” Aziraphale stood up in alarm.

Ebarak groaned in pain, doubling over, and shoved his chair away from the table before sliding out of it, onto the floor. Then he ripped the bathrobe from his body and tossed it behind him, returning to his naked state. Hunched over, one hand holding his stomach, the other on the floor, bracing himself, he took in a gasping breath. “Your slave is sorry,” he grunted through clenched teeth. “Demons are vessels to be emptied.”

Aziraphale knelt down, trying to figure out what was happening. “Ebarak, please, what’s happening?”

Ebarak pounded one fist on the floor, breathing heavily. “I have learned my lesson,” he panted. “Demons are vessels to be emptied. I accept and receive your grace.”

“What does that mean?” Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, who was standing over the pair looking stunned and concerned.

“Think the food hurt him, somehow.”

“It wasn’t meant to! Please, Ebarak, is there some sort of curse?”

“True redemption is the obliteration of evil,” Ebarak chanted, his words labored. “Your slave regrets its wretchedness. I submit to righteous effacement.”

“I don’t understand!” Aziraphale could feel his eyes brimming with tears of frustrated empathy. He wiped at them with the back of his hand. “I want to help you,” he said, “but I don’t know how.”

Crowley turned and grabbed the olive wood from the table, then joined Aziraphale on the floor and pressed it into his hand. “Just try something.”

Figuring that the food must have been the issue, Aziraphale focused on miracling the croissant away, disappearing all its substance from within Ebarak’s body. He also did his best to infuse the miracle with the fact of his own sorrow at having inadvertently harmed Ebarak.

Ebarak let go of his stomach and began to breathe more normally. Aziraphale felt relieved, but also foolish. Of course a corporation so limited by the binding sigil wouldn’t be able to consume food, not without the ability to adjust itself or do away with the food before it became a problem.

He was suddenly glad that Valen had never been willing to partake in any offered food or drink.

Ebarak was now on his hands and knees, his head drooping. “Thank you for your mercy, Sir,” he intoned. “Thank you for the instruction. Thank you for endeavoring to quit the sinful of their-”

“Don’t, please,” Aziraphale begged. He was now openly weeping. “Please, I’m so sorry - I never meant to hurt you.”

Ebarak looked up at the sound, confusion evident on his face.

Aziraphale kept crying and hiccupping out apologies. “Those terrible things, you must think - oh dear, please forgive me, I’m so sorry.”

“Angel.” Crowley’s firm voice snapped Aziraphale out of it. Crowley sat on the floor, next to Ebarak, and draped an arm over the prostrate demon. He pointed to the kitchen counter and raised his eyebrows. 

Aziraphale took the signal and hopped to his feet, leaving Crowley to tend to Ebarak while he fussed about in the kitchen. He found a red hot water bottle and filled it with scalding water from the tap, then wrapped it in a tea towel. Then he snapped a sprig of fresh mint from one of Crowley’s herb pots growing in the window.

When he turned around to return his attentions to Ebarak, the demon was sitting up, leaning against the kitchen wall, with Crowley beside him. Aziraphale held out the hot water bottle and Crowley took it, then set it on Ebarak’s belly.

“Here, if you like.” Aziraphale offered the mint. “The humans chew it. It settles the stomach.”

Ebarak took the delicate green stalk, but did not chew it. It stayed tucked in his hand, crushed against the hot water bottle he was holding.

“I truly am sorry,” Aziraphale said. “For everything.” His eyes were still watery, and he sniffled a bit as he stood before the demon, penitent and sad.

Ebarak looked between Crowley and Aziraphale, then shifted a bit, getting comfortable. 

“You two are for real,” he finally said, a shocked smile playing at his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here is](https://desperateground.tumblr.com/post/614667916206587904/some-images-of-ebarak-the-demon-who-belongs-to) some incredible artwork of our friend Ebarak done by May, a friend of mine from the Good Omens Kink Meme Server! You can find commission info [here](https://queenburd.tumblr.com/post/178319315306/queenburd-and-so-it-was-declared-in-the-year-of) \- please go send them some love!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley learn more about Ebarak, and he learns more about them. Aziraphale cooks a big breakfast. Valen gets upset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I know this chapter is monstrously late in coming! I'm a single parent of a high-needs kiddo, and the pandemic makes everything super rough. But I'm back, and I think this fic will continue apace with weekly chapters again.
> 
> I know it's no secret that we fic writers live for comments. I absolutely adore any kind of comment and could really use that smile in my notifications these days. So please, let me know if you have questions, or liked a certain sentence, or have feelings about Valen and Ebarak, or what you want to read more about in later chapters, or really, honestly, anything! 
> 
> Huge thanks to all my readers who have stuck with me through this weird time, sorry I made everyone wait so long! And an extra special thanks to @dreamsofspike for beta-ing this chapter!

The first thing Ebarak impressed upon them, after realizing that Crowley and Aziraphale were, indeed, liberation-minded rebels masquerading as a slave-breaking outfit, was that they absolutely must be more careful in the future.

“You can’t just go telling every demon you meet that you’re doing this,” he chided. Ebarak was still seated on the floor, his head resting back against the wall, apparently unbothered by his nakedness, perhaps made more comfortable by the hot water bottle lying in his lap.

“Like with me - you started in with it as soon as I got here. You’re lucky it was me. Other demons up there, they’re completely bought-in. They’d sell you out to the archangels in an instant.”

“ _ What _ ?” Crowley’s amber eyes went wide. 

“It’s true.” Ebarak sighed, letting his head loll against the wall as he stared up at the ceiling. “Turns out you can do a lot of brainwashing in a millennium or two.”

“Fuck,” Crowley breathed, running a hand over his face. 

“Well we’re lucky indeed, then, that you’re here, and not some other - er, someone else.” Aziraphale had sat down on the kitchen floor too, his legs crossed under him like a child. 

“Still, though,” Crowley said. “Probably more likely to meet folks like you, if they’re sending the misbehaving ones.”

“Sure,” Ebarak replied, “Michael’s and Gabriel’s, they wouldn’t set a feather out of line. So it’s not likely they’d end up sent over here for whatever  _ re-education _ they think you’ve given this one.” He gestured at Crowley, who grimaced. “But that doesn’t mean what you’re doing is safe. Plenty of us would dob you two in not because we believe in the glorious cause, but to spare our own hides.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard, wondering if he imagined the flinty edge of a threat in Ebarak’s voice. “Well, what do you propose we do?”

Ebarak sighed. “I don’t know. I’m not much for plans and schemes. I’m just here because I got dragged here by the neck, and I’ll be dragged back the same way.”

Something in the demon’s defeated words broke Aziraphale’s heart much the same way the first sight of Valen on the auction block had. Crowley evidently felt the same, since he was poised to begin one of his fiery monologues.

But Aziraphale didn’t think that Ebarak would be well served by Crowley’s attempts to rally him into rage and resistance. “Dear,” he said before Crowley could get started, “perhaps it’s time to take our guest upstairs, and show him his bedroom?”

Crowley looked irritated at having been interrupted, then sighed and softened. “Sure thing, angel.” He rose from the floor and stuck his hands in his pockets. 

Aziraphale stood, too, then reached down a hand to help Ebarak. The demon didn’t take his hand, instead just shifting the hot water bottle and standing unaided. 

But as he rose, some tiny movement must have twisted a too-abused muscle, because his motion stopped suddenly as he winced, his shoulders going taut with a shock of pain. Aziraphale saw again the deep bruise between the demon’s shoulder blades, which had not fully healed on the first attempt. 

“I can, er,” Aziraphale offered, holding up the piece of olivewood and gesturing toward Ebarak. “I mean, would you like me to?”

“Sure.” Ebarak rolled his neck, his mouth still tight.

Aziraphale wrapped his fingers around the wood, and the cracked bit of crystal, and focused all of his miraculous energies on Ebarak. It would be easier if he were touching the demon, but it all seemed too awkward and intimate already, so he did his best without. 

When he finished, Ebarak exhaled, stretching his arms out and exposing the expanse of his chest, a flat expanse of bulging muscles and thick black hair.

“You really tried to dig that thing out of yourself?” Crowley’s voice was curious and a bit sharp-edged.

“Yeah.”

Something occurred to Aziraphale, then. “But, I don’t understand - weren’t you there when the archangels explained that removing the shard meant obliteration?”

Ebarak’s eyes were hard, his voice flat. “Why do you think I did it?”

There was nothing to say. Righteous, helpless grief howled in Aziraphale’s ears. He was ashamed of his own insensitivity. Who was he, pampered and soft, who had never known one thousandth of what these demons had suffered, to try and minister to them? How many more times would he stuff his own foot in his mouth? He was just one being, inadequate to the task of righting this cosmic injustice. He could barely provide hospitality to the two poor demons under his roof. Nothing but foolish questions and food that caused agony, and all the ways he had managed to terrify Valen. 

Only when Crowley broke the heavy silence with a little cough did Aziraphale manage to pull himself out of the spiral of self-recrimination. 

“Your room, then,” he mumbled, then turned to lead the strange trio upstairs.

***

Halfway up the stairs, Ebarak paused, his hand on the banister. Aziraphale followed his gaze out the front window, where the lights of late-night London glittered.

“So this is Earth these days,” the demon said.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “I suppose it must look quite different from when you were last here - would have been during the war, right?”

Ebarak ran his tongue over his teeth. “Longer,” he said slowly. “Never spent much time topside.”

The statement seemed to carry some kind of information that Crowley understood, but Aziraphale was lost. He rapped his knuckles on the banister. “Shall we, then?”

When they passed, the blankets in Valen’s doorway were as still as stones. 

Aziraphale and Crowley had decided to put the new demon’s quarters on the other side of the hallway from Valen’s room, with their bedroom in between. Given how skittish Valen seemed about Crowley, Aziraphale had worried about conflict between him and whoever their new visitor turned out to be. This way, both demons would have to walk past the doorway of the master bedroom to reach each other.

The building had been accommodating, though not without some creaking complaints, when Aziraphale requested an entirely new guest room. It was plainer than Valen’s, without any of the clutter that Aziraphale had acquired over the years, and done in tasteful, muted greys and blues. Ebarak looked wary, though impressed, as he entered.

“This is your space for as long as you’re with us,” Aziraphale explained. “No one will enter without your permission. You’re safe here.”

Ebarak gave Aziraphale a somewhat accommodating smile, then ran his hand over the metal footboard of the queen-size bed. While Crowley leaned on the doorway with his arms crossed, Aziraphale stepped into the room and switched on the lamp.

This only threw Ebarak’s nakedness into stark contrast with the civilized tidiness of the rest of the surroundings. Aziraphale pointed to the sleek, black-enameled wardrobe against one wall, trying to keep the pinkness out of his cheeks. “And there is clothing for you. Everything should fit, but please let me know if there’s anything you need.”

Ebarak opened the slim door and looked inside. Aziraphale swelled with pride at the way the demon’s posture and expression finally betrayed genuine appreciation. Since Nephriel told him that Ebarak had been enslaved for around seventy years, he had gone ahead and assumed that much of the demon’s preferences would have been frozen in time around the 1940s. So the wardrobe was stocked with men’s fashions from that time, plus a variety of more modern items. All were heavily miracled to fit the wearer perfectly.

As Crowley stood in the doorway, looking equal parts guard and onlooker, and Aziraphale held his position on the room’s soft rug, Ebarak ran his hand over the clothing in the wardrobe, handling each item with something like reverence. He chose a crisp white collared shirt and a sharp pair of tapered pinstripe trousers, pulling them on with a fluid familiarity that seemed counter to the muscular bulk of the demon himself.

Then Ebarak reached back into the closet, finding a wide leather belt. He held it in both hands, feeling its heft. Something in his posture seemed almost reverent - or as near to reverence as Aziraphale figured a demon could get. 

Watching Ebarak run his fingers over the dark leather, Aziraphale felt something crackle in the room, as if all the rugs and bedsheets had come alight with static shocks at the same time. A sensation he could only describe as  _ malice  _ rippled out from the demon as he touched the belt as if it were a shy lover’s skin. 

For the first time, Aziraphale was full aware that this stranger in his home was a demon, a true denizen of Hell.

In the doorway, Crowley was tense, his posture rigid, his fists flexing open and closed, his golden eyes trained directly on Ebarak. 

Ebarak took a deep breath (Aziraphale noted with pride that he didn’t appear to have any lingering pain in his back after the second healing) and lowered the belt, sliding it through the loops on his pants. The strange energy in the room dissipated and Aziraphale felt himself relaxing.

“Do you sleep?” the angel asked.

Ebarak looked at the bed and shrugged. “Might as well.”

“Alright then,” Crowley said in a rather clipped tone. “See you in the morning.” He caught Aziraphale’s eye and, in that private language of looks and gestures they had shared since before English was ever spoken, let the angel know it was time for bed.

***

“I know I was the one who pushed for him to come here,” Crowley said quietly as they changed into their pajamas and slipped into bed, “but don’t forget he’s a demon. One you don’t know. I want you to be careful.”

“Of course, dear.” Aziraphale didn’t think Ebarak (or Valen, for that matter) could be much of a threat to him given the power he wielded through the crystals, but he understood Crowley’s concern. “What was that all about, back there?”

“What was what all about?” Crowley nuzzled against Aziraphale’s side.

“On the stairs, and then in the bedroom. There’s something about Ebarak I don’t quite understand, but it seems you do.”

Crowley sighed. “He’s a  _ demon _ , Aziraphale.”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale huffed. He was getting the distinct impression that Crowley was reluctant to tell him something, which of course made him want to hear it all the more. “I knew that.”

“A real one. From Hell.”

“As opposed to what? A fake demon?”

Crowley stared up at the ceiling, clearly annoyed at being pressed on the matter. “He said he didn’t come up to Earth much. And - well - you’ve seen him. Think about it, Aziraphale. He wasn’t exactly pushing papers around for the Office of Minor Temptations.”

“I see.” Aziraphale leaned over and turned the bedside lamp off. 

“He’s a  _ Cicatrix _ ,” Crowley said. “Means  _ bruiser _ .”

A thousand questions swirled in Aziraphale’s mind. He selected the most innocuous one he could find to voice. “I wonder how they got him, then, if he never left Hell?”

“Dunno,” Crowley said in a tone that indicated he was not much motivated to puzzle it out, at least not now. “Just, be careful, alright? Watch what you say, and keep an eye on him.”

“I will,” Aziraphale promised. Then he dropped the topic and turned his attention to Crowley, his fingers stroking through the demon’s hair until he fell asleep curled around Aziraphale’s hip. 

Aziraphale stayed up, working through it all. Little Valen, permanently under his protection, and the hulking Ebarak, each a mystery in their own way. Would he need to protect Valen from the other demon? How  _ had _ Ebarak ended up in the hands of the angelic cabal? 

It was almost too much - it would have been altogether too much for Aziraphale to handle were it not for Crowley, a steady and steadfast presence. He rested a hand on the demon’s side, feeling the slender ribs rise and fall with Crowley’s soft, sleepy breaths. As miserable and tangled as the situation was, at least they were in it together, and if all else failed, Aziraphale knew he could always count on Crowley, acerbic and pointed, loyal and kind, by his side no matter what came.

***

Aziraphale thought it would be nice to cook a full breakfast, now that he knew how to ensure Ebarak could enjoy food without problem. He mixed up a fluffy waffle batter while a sleepy-eyed Crowley deftly sliced the tops off strawberries.

The cast iron was warming on the stove, and when Aziraphale dropped in a healthy portion of thick bacon and greasy sausage, the smell of browning meat seemed to draw Ebarak downstairs like a snake charmer’s flute. He appeared in the kitchen and dropped his heavy frame into a kitchen chair, a hungry look in his eyes.

“Good morning!” Aziraphale was thrilled to see Ebarak, sitting at his table like any other guest. 

It was a lot of food for three beings, and the table was overcrowded with little pitchers of syrup, pots of jam, mountains of berries, and bowls of fresh whipped cream, plus trays piled high with waffles, bacon, and sausages. Aziraphale tucked in with relish, ensuring that each bite had a perfectly even ratio of sweet whipped cream, syrupy berries, and perfectly-browned waffle.

Aziraphale had propped open the door to the little backyard where Crowley was tending to a variety of herbs and bushes, and a warm morning breeze carried the faint odor of gardenias through the kitchen. A rather confused-seeming bumblebee lazily circled the syrup pitcher. The three of them chatted lightly about the garden. 

Aziraphale noted that Ebarak had hardly touched the waffles or fruit on his plate, but had made short work of several sausages and was tearing into his third helping of bacon. He filed this observation away, as any good host would do when identifying some unspoken preference of his guest.

Something about the noise downstairs drew Valen out of his bedroom, and Aziraphale saw the demon standing quietly at the top of the stairs. He still held the teddy bear in both hands, his elbows out, like some sort of ring bearer. 

“Good morning, Valen, dear!” Aziraphale smiled and waved. As soon as he caught Valen’s silver-blue eyes, the demon dropped his gaze. “Do come down and join us for breakfast!”

Valen descended the stairs, his head still bowed. He took a spot at Aziraphale’s side, standing like a sentinel. 

“No - Valen, love - have a seat, please.” Aziraphale gestured toward the empty chair next to Crowley and across from Ebarak.

Valen shuffled over and sat down, his posture still rigid. He still held the bear up near his chest. It made Aziraphale’s arms ache just to see it.

“Why don’t you put the bear down? It’s okay,” Aziraphale coaxed. “Just set it on the table, you’re alright.”

Valen did as he was told. 

“Would you like some breakfast?” Aziraphale continued, trying to keep his tone gentle and light. “We found a way for you to eat without, er, without complications. You’re perfectly welcome to a waffle!”

“They’re for real,” Ebarak said through a mouthful of sausage. “Angel’s weird but he’s not gonna hurt you. Relax.”

Valen did not relax. He looked at the food on the table with an expression Aziraphale could only describe as detached terror. 

“Here ya go.” Crowley grabbed a waffle and tossed it onto Valen’s plate. “They’re good, you’ll like it.” Without waiting for a response, Crowley scooped up a heaping spoonful of berries and dropped them right on top.

But Crowley was a bit too enthusiastic in his movements. Bright red juice splattered off the plate and onto the white teddy bear, which had remained in pristine condition despite Valen constantly carrying it around. 

In an instant, Valen was standing, his chest puffed, breath heaving, glaring down at Crowley with murderous rage in his eyes. 

“Sorry about that, mate,” Crowley said, raising his hands in apology. 

Valen’s eyes darted from Crowley, to the bear, to Aziraphale. He looked like a string pulled to the point of snapping, a being reduced entirely to a raving fight-or-flight response.

“Look,” Crowley said slowly, as if trying to soothe a rabid animal. “I’ll fix it.” He snapped his fingers lightly, and the stains disappeared. “Good as new, see?”

Valen snatched the bear up and examined it with narrowed eyes. He glanced at Aziraphale, searching, desperate.

“It’s fine,” Aziraphale said, fluffing his napkin in an attempt to regain some sense of normalcy at the breakfast table. “It’s yours, Valen. Really. Hold it, drop it, tear it - it’s yours to do what you like! I don’t care what you do with it.”

He had hoped this would reassure the demon, but strangely, his statement had the complete opposite effect. 

Valen turned his furious countenance toward Aziraphale, his posture and eyes conveying nothing but hatred and anger, and something like betrayal. 

“You - you don’t care?”

“No, dear,” Aziraphale said, his voice wobbling despite himself. “Truly.”

Valen’s brow knotted in some sort of agitated confusion. Then he pulled his arm back and absolutely hurled the bear at Aziraphale. It landed on the angel’s plate and splattered syrup, cream, and berry juice all over his face and clothing.

Valen looked nearly as stunned as Aziraphale for a brief instant before he turned and ran with astonishing speed up the stairs and into his bedroom den.

Aziraphale rose from his chair, prepared to follow Valen, but Crowley stilled him with a warning noise and a quick shake of his head. The angel sat back down, feeling very confused and pathetic.

A tense silence hung in the kitchen for a beat or two.

Then Ebarak burst out in raucous laughter, slapping his hand against the tablecloth and rocking in his seat.

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale said peevishly, dabbing at his now very sticky face with his napkin. “Just what is so funny?”

Ebarak struggled to answer, fighting to catch his breath between peals of laughter. He gestured at Valen’s empty seat, at the sodden bear lying sadly in front of Aziraphale, at the upstairs room Valen had disappeared to. “He - you - he thought -” Ebarak gasped, still hysterical.

Crowley sighed, clearly less baffled by Ebarak’s reaction. He waved a hand at Aziraphale and the mess on the angel’s face and clothes disappeared. 

“He thinks you’re about to head up there and absolutely  _ flay _ him,” Ebarak finally said, still laughing.

“Well I’m most certainly not,” Aziraphale snapped. “And I don’t see what is at all funny about that.”

“What even  _ is _ that thing?” Ebarak pointed to the stuffed bear.

Aziraphale was about to explain how humans used such “stuffies,” and his intentions in giving it to Valen, but Crowley spoke first. “Leave it alone,” he cautioned Ebarak. “Come on, angel. Let’s get this cleaned up.”

The rest of the day was a rather gloomy affair. Valen, rather understandably, was nowhere to be seen. Ebarak remained in a disturbingly cheerful mood, which Aziraphale found prudent to avoid. He and Crowley cleaned up the kitchen, then retired to the garden with two tall glasses of lavender-tinged lemonade and attempted to make conversation, but their inability to discuss anything but the circumstances of their two bizarre houseguests rendered it a quiet afternoon.

***

Bedtime finally came, and Aziraphale was blessed with an excuse to close out the day. It would have been rude to hide away in his room and ignore Ebarak completely, but he had to admit he had looked forward to the moment the clock struck 9 and he could make a plausible exit. 

He and Crowley bid a quick goodnight to Ebarak, who had spent the majority of the evening watching pedestrians out the bookstore’s large front window, and retreated upstairs. Ebarak followed them, heading into his bedroom and shutting the door. Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief at having made it through what had felt like a very long day.

Crowley fell asleep quickly. Aziraphale settled in with a book about historical mishaps in the attempt to track the transit of Venus. He knew for a fact that some of his and Crowley’s colleagues had been responsible for a number of the situations outlined in the book, and it was a pleasantly nostalgic read.

The knowledge that Valen and Ebarak, both much-abused demons now currently under his care, were alone in their rooms just a few metres away, tickled uncomfortably at Aziraphale’s mind. He wanted to do more to know them and to help them, but they were both such enigmas in their own ways, and his impotence in this area rankled.

It was tempting to use his angelic magics to peek inside both bedrooms, but he would not violate their privacy so cruelly, not after so much had already been taken from them. 

Still, his senses remained heightened, both by his ethereal powers and the simple fact of his empathetic attention. So when he heard the whisper of a blanket moved aside, and bare feet tiptoeing down the hallway, he slipped out of bed and stood at his door, listening intently.

A shaky intake of breath. Oh, how his heart hurt for the depths of anxiety Valen seemed to be drowning in.

A timid knocking. Not on Aziraphale’s door - Valen was outside Ebarak’s room.

Aziraphale listened, holding his breath.

The door opening. A gruff noise of acknowledgement.

Valen’s voice. “What you said, earlier - are they, really?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “They’re for real, with all this. You can trust them.”

Something like a choked sob. The sound of a door closing.

The stillness of Valen, standing in the hallway, alone.

Then his quick, short steps, crossing back to his own room.

It took all the discipline in Aziraphale’s soul not to rush to Valen’s side and wrap him in assurances of safety, plead his own case, do whatever it took to console the little demon and convince him of the reality of his new station.

But not like this. Valen had not come to his door. Had not asked for his presence. He would not force anything upon the little demon. 

Aziraphale got back into bed, sighing with the weight of all he was doing, and refraining from doing. He pulled Crowley into his arms, hugging the demon’s sleepy form tightly against him, and let himself focus on this, only this, until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more Ebarak content for you all!
> 
> [Here are some more Ebarak drawings](https://desperateground.tumblr.com/post/617951959025172480/more-ebarak-done-by-the-amazing-queenburd-now) by the same artist who did the last Ebarak pieces, now with clothing!
> 
> And if you want an alternate image of Ebarak, the actor Darwin Shaw works as a faceclaim! See some photos of him on my blog [here](https://desperateground.tumblr.com/post/617893728281149440/alvinnguyen-blog-darwin-shaw-portraits-alternate) and [here](https://desperateground.tumblr.com/post/617952054356344832/an-alternate-fc-for-ebarak-the-actor-darwin)!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale struggles with how much power - unwanted as it may be - he has over the two sharded demons. Nephriel calls. Ebarak eats lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another quiet chapter - please let me know if things are moving too slowly! There is more plot, and action, and slaveowning-angel-cult stuff coming soon, I promise! But I can always rearrange the chapter timeline if folks are getting burned out on the day to day of the demons hanging out in Aziraphale's apartment.

Given the miseries of the previous day, Aziraphale decided not to attempt another breakfast. Instead, he lounged in bed with Crowley through the morning. Crowley slunk downstairs once to fix himself a cup of coffee (and returned with a mug of creamy hot cocoa for Aziraphale as well), but the entire place remained otherwise quiet until early afternoon.

Aziraphale could sense the entities of Valen and Ebarak, both cloistered in their bedrooms on either side of his own. Despite Crowley’s warm presence beside him in bed, the whole house had a sluggish and lonesome atmosphere, as if each inhabitant was a solitary bubble that could only orbit the others at a distance.

Noontime had long passed, and Aziraphale finally forced himself out of bed. “Best have some kind of lunch,” he said, and Crowley sprang up to join him. 

Downstairs, Aziraphale set about fixing himself a cold sandwich, taking care to make plenty of noise banging the dishes about so that their guests knew lunch was being served. Ebarak appeared almost immediately, giving Aziraphale a sharp pang of guilt at how he had leveraged his imbalanced powers to keep everyone shut up in their room for his own comfort.

“Would you care for a sandwich?” Aziraphale held out the one he had just prepared for himself - two slices of rye bread piled high with sliced turkey, pillowy lettuce from Crowley’s garden, seedy mustard, and a hearty smear of brie cheese. 

“No thanks,” Ebarak said, taking a seat next to Crowley at the table. But Aziraphale caught the hungry flicker of the demon’s eyes to the plate of turkey, and remembered how he had favored bacon and sausage the previous day.

“Is there something else you’d like? What’s your favorite food?”

Crowley quirked an eyebrow at Aziraphale’s unctuousness, and Aziraphale gave him a tiny placating shrug. Yes, he had been disturbed enough by Ebarak’s attitude toward Valen, and he had every intention of heeding Crowley’s warning about the Cicatrix. But Ebarak was also his guest, and a weary victim currently under his care.

“Didn’t think they really had many gourmands in Hell,” Crowley said, sipping pointedly at his coffee.

“We get what we want down there,” Ebarak said, looking directly at Crowley. “If you must know, my favorite is a whole roast bird. Quail, back when the humans favored those.”

Aziraphale’s face broke into a wide grin. Crowley gave him a warning look, one that Azirpahale knew meant  _ you better not put yourself out turning the kitchen upside down roasting a quail _ .

The angel’s grin didn’t falter. He had no intention of trying to cook a quail, but he had other ways of managing. 

Aziraphale did not believe in miraculously conjuring food - there was always something not quite right about it, and it seemed a violation of the natural glories that provided such sumptuous treats. But he was not at all above using his angelic powers to simply move already prepared food from one location to another.

Across the world, in a French restaurant in a time zone far more conducive to the late hour of fine dining, a young man had recently ordered a whole quail roasted over potatoes, leeks, and fennel. However, as the chef was readying the plate to be handed off to the waiter, it occurred to this young man that he would rather have the boar bolognese instead, and it just so happened that the waiter picked that up instead, as the quail was transported to a London flat.

“There you are,” Aziraphale said, setting the dish down with a proud flourish.

“Angel, wha-” Crowley set his coffee cup down in alarm. “You can’t just-”

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale said playfully. “Go on, dig in!”

Crowley rolled his eyes, but Ebarak did exactly as he was told. Forgoing the silverware laid on the table, he tore into the bird with hands and teeth, ripping flesh from bone with visible relish on his face. He licked the grease from his fingers before diving in again.

Aziraphale was thrilled to see Ebarak so enjoying his meal. Crowley, for his part, was less enthralled by the show.

“Must not have forks in his part of Hell,” he grumbled into Aziraphale’s ear as he made his way to the sink to rinse out his mug.

Aziraphale was just pleased by the friendlier tone that the afternoon was taking, and none of Crowley’s fuss could dampen his spirits. 

Unfortunately, Crowley’s curmudgeonly attitude was not the only thing encroaching on Aziraphale’s good mood. As Ebarak finished up his quail - having left only the bones, all bitten clean of meat, and all the vegetables untouched - the kitchen phone rang. 

Aziraphale picked it up and began to chirp his way through the standard bookshop greeting, when the voice on the other line dropped a heavy stone of dread into his stomach.

“It’s Nephriel,” interrupted the other angel. “I’m just calling to see how things are going, and when you wanted me to come pick him up?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, trying to gather his wits enough to convincingly play the slave-breaker he most certainly was not. “Yes, yes, good to hear from you.”

“Well? Is he behaving?”

Aziraphale looked at Ebarak, lounging at the table, quail fat glistening on his chin. The demon met his eyes, and Aziraphale had to look away, turning his entire body toward the counter where the phone sat.

“Yes, absolutely, no troubles here,” Aziraphale said.

“Great! So should I come get him soon?”

“Er, well,” Aziraphale hedged. “There are still some behavioral challenges to address, I feel. Probably best for me to spend more time with him.” Aziraphale wished he was alone to take this call. Speaking of Ebarak as a conquered beast while he was within earshot filled Aziraphale with embarrassment for the both of them, and he struggled to maintain the facade.

“How long will it take?” Nephriel sounded anxious. “I don’t want Gabriel and them thinking I can’t handle him, or that I ruined his training so badly.”

Aziraphale swallowed, knowing that whatever timetable he proposed would, by necessity, condemn Ebarak to torment at the end. He twisted the phone cord around one finger and felt his turkey sandwich swimming uncomfortably in his stomach. “Perhaps we could check in later this week?”

“Okay,” Nephriel said. “I’ll call you in a few days.”

“Tip-top,” Aziraphale said, wincing at his own forced cheer. 

“Thanks again for taking him like this,” Nephriel continued. “I really hope he’s not causing any problems or being a bad influence on your two.”

“Nope, nope, none of that.” Aziraphale was desperate to get off the phone. “Alright then, I’ll hear from you soon!”

He hung up without waiting for her to respond, then leaned his rather sweaty forehead against the kitchen cabinet for a moment. 

“Nephriel, huh?” Ebarak asked.

Aziraphale nodded shamefully. 

“Well then,” Ebarak said, stretching languidly, “best get a move on. Plenty of  _ training _ left to do.”

Aziraphale felt his lower lip wobble. How could this demon be so cavalier about the miserable circumstances he was in? And what did he expect Aziraphale to do about it?

“I was rather thinking a cozy day in the study,” Crowley said with more pointedness than the statement really required. 

And so they made their way into the study. Valen’s absence remained a thorn in Aziraphale’s side, and he felt again the pangs of helpless rage as he saw his desk, littered with the magazine cuttings from the collage book he’d made for the little demon. Surely it was sitting untouched in the upstairs room, an object of terror rather than comfort or self-expression.

Aziraphale sighed and began to tidy up the desk in preparation for another round of focused investigation into demon bindings and Creation Stone. 

Crowley and Ebarak had pulled out a marble and onyx chess set and began to play some form of demonic chess. From what Aziraphale could tell, it was played on a standard chessboard, but had arbitrary and complex rules and rewarded players for arguing and cheating more than strategy. Plus, a number of the pieces and moves had far cruder names. Aziraphale could hardly follow it.

“My kinslayer disembowels your wench,” Ebarak was saying triumphantly as he knocked over a piece.

“Can’t do that if you’re coming from behind,” Crowley scolded. “Only attacks from the front disembowel.”

“Fine,” Ebarak said. “I sodomize her, then.”

Aziraphale had no idea what the difference was, and he had long past given up on tracking the oddities of this game.

“Here comes my oubliette,” Crowley said, sliding over a piece Aziraphale would have called a ‘rook.’ “Makes your priest go mad.”

“No,” Ebarak argued, “You need a crooked bishop within three squares to oubliette a priest, and yours got stoned a while back.”

“Gonna stone  _ you _ ,” Crowley moaned, flicking at the polished stone pieces.

Aziraphale, having determined that he was going to get very little true research done with the two demons bickering over their game, was instead reading  _ McTeague _ , a strange little novel he often returned to when facing down the inexplicable cruelties of another.

He was distracted for a moment by a movement at the top of the stairs: Valen had exited his bedroom and was crouched by the banister, watching intently as Crowley and Ebarak quarreled over the chessboard. 

As tempted as he was to invite the little demon downstairs, Aziraphale conjured up all his self control and ignored Valen entirely after his initial (blessedly unnoticed) glance upstairs, staring intently at his book even though he had lost all ability to focus. Neither demon seemed to have noticed their audience of one - though they had been carrying on with such theatrics in their squabblings that one would have been forgiven for assuming that they were in the mode of a performance.

After an interminable stretch of time the game ended in what appeared to be a hotly contested victory for Ebarak. Both demons were shouting and menacing each other, but Aziraphale had seen enough demonic nonsense to know that it was mostly in good fun.

He was unsure, however, whether it was the end of the game itself or the rowdiness of the participants that spooked Valen. Either way, the blonde demon had disappeared back into his bedroom as soon as it was over. Aziraphale did his best to tamp down his frustration, and filed away as a personal note the observation that Valen seemed interested in (and not too frightened by) the more demonic antics of Crowley and Ebarak.

Ebarak, still teasing Crowley about his victory, stood from the leather seat and arched his back, rolling his shoulders. He’d spent all afternoon hunched over the chessboard, Aziraphale realized, and he might as well have been a human, given how much control he had over the various aches and weaknesses of his corporation.

Just as Aziraphale was about to offer to do something about that, Ebarak spoke. “Mind if I take my wings out for a stretch?”

“Absolutely!” Aziraphale appreciated the casual tone of the request - the way Ebarak seemed willing to paper over the awful reality they had been forced to share. It protected both of them.

Aziraphale closed his hand around the olivewood in his pocket - he was never without either crystal, not after realizing how critical they would be in tending to the two ‘sharded’ demons - and focused on giving Ebarak as much control as possible.

With a great low growl of relief, Ebarak loosed his wings and spread them, taking up the entire length of the library and extending one down the hallway.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but stare. Ebarak’s wings were positively magnificent. He could see immediately why Nephriel was threatened by them. The larger outer feathers were a deep, rich grey and the ones closer in were a rust-red brown that gleamed under the lamplight of the study. Massive and visibly powerful, they had no delicacy to them whatsoever. 

Ebarak shook them out, letting dust plumes rise into the air. (Aziraphale made use of a quick miracle to protect his antique books, while doing his best not to judge the demon’s etiquette.) Then, after stretching them out a few times, he settled on the floor, wrapped one wing around himself, and began to preen.

His process was not the self-indulgent affair that Aziraphale was used to, living with Crowley. Ebarak touched his own wings like a workman organizing his tools - with pride and care, but not exactly a sense of fleshly pleasure. Aziraphale could not help but watch as Ebarak moved his wide hands through his wings, setting each feather to rights. They were in a poor state, but it seemed to be from neglect rather than abuse.

It was nice, for a while. Crowley climbed into Aziraphale’s armchair and made a charming nuisance of himself until Aziraphale put his book away and devoted himself entirely to stroking the demon’s head. No one spoke, but there was a sense of quietly shared company.

Until, that is, Ebarak finished tending to his feathers and stood again, flexing his wings in place. “Think I’ll go for a flight, then,” he said, looking at Aziraphale meaningfully.

Aziraphale could have simply said “ _ Jolly good, _ ” tapped the crystal in his pocket, and everyone could have gone along with the polite fiction. 

Only by withholding his permission would he put himself in the awkward position of acknowledging that he did indeed hold the power to do so. Quite literally. The olivewood felt heavy in his pocket.

“Er,” Aziraphale stammered as Ebarak cocked his head, expectation in his dark eyes. “Are - are you sure that’s such a good idea? If Heaven sees you -”

Ebarak interrupted Aziraphale with a scoff. “They don’t watch anything down here.”

Aziraphale was alarmed by Ebarak’s lack of concern, given what was at stake. “It doesn’t seem safe,” he pleaded.

“It’ll be fine,” Ebarak said, a hardness in his voice. “I’ll be in my other form anyway. None of the angels would recognize me from any old bird.”

Aziraphale swallowed. He couldn’t say no. He simply couldn’t. He tried to imagine the abject humiliation of being denied access to his own wings, of having to beg another’s consent when it came to that true and intimate part of himself.

Aziraphale thought it a terrible idea, and would have forbade it if doing so wouldn’t have been even more excruciating. Instead, he just nodded at Ebarak, again laying his hand on the inlaid wood in his pocket.

Ebarak strode to the window and pushed it open, letting the cool evening air in. In a flash - much quicker than Crowley’s serpentine shifts - the demon’s humanoid corporation disappeared, and in its place was a fine looking Harris hawk, majestic and proud, its feathers every bit as gorgeous as their larger versions within Ebarak’s demonic wings.

Aziraphale caught a glimpse of bare, ash-pale skin just between the hawk’s wings, and a sharp lump that signified the presence of a crystal shard. Then the creature took off, soaring into the darkness of the city.

“Don’t hawks eat snakes?” Aziraphale asked Crowley, primarily to break the awkward silence Ebarak left in his wake. “Should I be worried?”

“Doesn’t work like that,” Crowley said, nuzzling into Aziraphale. “Wanna go up to bed?”

Aziraphale couldn’t pull his attention from the open window. “Shouldn’t we wait up for him?”

Crowley shrugged. “He’s a big boy.”

Aziraphale kept staring into the night. He sorely regretted letting Ebarak go, though he knew he would likely have felt just as bad, if not worse, if he hadn’t. Anxiety twisted in his gut. “I don’t like it, him out there on his own.”

“Give him a bit of space, angel,” Crowley counseled. “He needs it.”

Aziraphale couldn’t argue with that. But still, he worried. “What if he doesn’t come back?”

“Has to, doesn’t he?” Crowley gestured toward Aziraphale’s pocket, which bulged with the chunk of olivewood. “Won’t survive long otherwise.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Right, right.” He thought of the tattoos that cut off the demons from their own powers, forced them into total reliance on the angels that held them in bondage. How Michael and Gabriel seemed to think that this was magnanimous, that the angels who “shared” their grace with such a hobbled demon were somehow doing the poor beings some kind of favor.

As he considered the wretched state of things, another terrible thought occurred to him. The deep gash on Ebarak’s back; Nephriel’s warning that he might try again to extract his shard.

“Do you think he might…” Aziraphale rubbed his forehead, frustrated with himself, with Ebarak, with everything. “Try again to - you know...” Aziraphale mimed some vague violence against himself, hoping Crowley would get the message.

“Would be a right mess if he did,” Crowley said in a matter-of-fact tone that did nothing to calm Aziraphale. 

_ Right mess _ was a bit of an understatement. Aziraphale didn’t think he’d be able to explain such a thing to Nephriel, and then the archangels would come investigate, and they’d find out about Crowley, and they’d take him and hurt him, and poor Valen too…

Aziraphale wanted to believe that Ebarak wouldn’t do that to them, wouldn’t put them in such a position. But he barely knew Ebarak, and even Crowley had said to be careful about trusting him. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale mumbled, unable to pay much attention to the way Crowley was angling for more cuddles. “I probably shouldn’t have let him go.”

“But you did,” Crowley said, as if he were making some kind of point.

“I could try and call him back,” Aziraphale mused. He ran his fingers over the smooth wood burl in his pocket without actually touching the inlaid crystal.

“Best not, I think.” Crowley’s voice had the same note of warning as when he’d stayed Aziraphale at the breakfast table. “Leave it be, angel.”

Aziraphale dropped the matter, at least out loud. But he could not calm his fretting, and soon got up from his overstuffed chair to pace the study, watching out the window.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley stood too, following the angel. “Come on. It’ll be alright.”

“No, it won’t,” Aziraphale moaned. “It’s all so bloody wrong. And here I am, smack in the center, with no idea how to set things right.”

“Well then,” Crowley said, striding confidently to Aziraphale’s broad desk and taking up a sheaf of paper, “let’s find one.”

“Find what?”

“An idea.”

Crowley beckoned Aziraphale to the desk, and the angel dragged himself over, still sneaking glances out the open window. Images ran through his mind, bleak pictures of Ebarak taking his sharp talons to the bare spot on his back, of a viciously angry Gabriel storming in to find Valen in his nest, of Crowley on his knees on the block, of -

“Here, you start with these.” Crowley’s voice snapped Aziraphale out of his gloom.

Aziraphale looked down, to where Crowley had opened a heavy book full of chaotic ink drawings by a woman who claimed to have been depicting “angelic and demonic entities” who had visited her to “inculcate in myself the morals or vices of their respective attitudes and thereby attain for themselves a slaved adherent to their wills.”

“Look for crystals, stones, anything like that.” Crowley started rooting around in one of Aziraphale’s drawers.

“Oh, do get out of there!” Aziraphale’s irritation with Crowley temporarily overtook his worrying as he gently slapped Crowley’s hand away. “Whenever you rummage around, I can never find anything!”

Crowley flashed him an unapologetic grin. “Like you have such a tidy system otherwise.”

“It’s worked for me for centuries!” Aziraphale could feel himself taking on the pouty, petulant attitude he always slipped into when Crowley teased him. It was playful, and familiar, and quite a relief. “What are you looking for, anyway?”

“This.” Crowley produced Aziraphale’s handheld magnifying glass, which was somehow now in his hand. He held it up to his face and made a goofy expression, exaggerated by the thick glass.

Despite himself, Aziraphale laughed. 

“There you go.” Crowley sounded self-satisfied as he handed over the magnifying glass. “I’ll poke through these indexes.”

“Indices,” Aziraphale muttered almost reflexively, and the two shared a smirk.

With that, they settled in to a night’s work. Aziraphale realized belatedly that Crowley had been wanting to go to bed, and was once again overcome with gratitude for the easy, knowing care his demon always provided.

Midnight passed, and though the room grew chilly, neither one of the moved to close the window. Dark thoughts crept back into Aziraphale’s mind, though he felt less as though he were drowning in hopelessness now that he had a task in front of him; even if said task was not as fruitful as he had hoped. The linocuts were poorly printed for how cramped their details were; sometimes smeared, difficult to decipher.

Crowley had confirmed that at least some of it showed evidence of the artist’s encounters with real demons, but Aziraphale doubted he’d find anything useful among the macabre shapes. 

With every passing minute, he wished desperately for Ebarak’s return, and struggled more and more to focus on searching the linocuts. Around 2am, Crowley started stifling yawns, and Aziraphale turned his efforts from poring over the black-and-white images to trying to muster up enough inner strength to suggest that they head up to bed.

Before he could, however, a noise at the window snapped both him and Crowley to attention. Ebarak’s hawk form swooped in, shifting to a man’s shape in the air, landing perfectly with both feet on the floor.

“Oh, welcome!” Aziraphale stood from the desk and began to babble about how happy was to have Ebarak back, and how worried he’d been. But the stream of words died in his mouth when he saw the look on Ebarak’s face.

He looked surprised to see Aziraphale, and irritated as well. Under those was something more simmering, something like resentment, or even hatred.

“Didn’t have to wait up for me,” Ebarak snapped.

“I - I was only worried -”

Ebarak cut him off with a curt, grunted “Night,” then slouched upstairs, his footfalls heavy with anger.

Confused, Aziraphale looked to Crowley, but the demon only shrugged. “Guess that’s that, then. Bed?”

Aziraphale nodded, unable to think of anything he could want more in the world than to head upstairs with Crowley and bring this bizarre day to a close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started working on a playlist for this fic: [check it out](https://desperateground.tumblr.com/post/619063949717110784/adularescence-playlist) and feel free to send me suggestions for more!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Ebarak play chess. Valen starts to trust Aziraphale. Nephriel calls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to go up Monday, but I kept wanting to add more things, and then the chapter sort of blew up into two chapters, so I plan to have the next bit up this weekend. Things are pretty rough in my life right now and I get so much joy out of sharing my fics with all you lovely people, and reading the comments, and everything. <3

Aziraphale was up early the next morning, despite how late their night had gone. He had always needed less sleep than Crowley - in truth, neither of them  _ needed _ to sleep, but compared to Crowley, Aziraphale had much less of a fondness for it.

The flat was quiet, and Aziraphale dressed slowly, indulging in the solitude. Crowley’s sleeping form, sprawled in the bedsheets, was a lovely sight to start the day with.

Remembering Crowley’s care for him only a few hours earlier, he determined to do something to show his gratitude. Aziraphale crept downstairs and fired up the espresso machine, making somewhat liberal use of miracles to keep things silent. 

He never quite understood Crowley’s interest in human machinery - stereos and cars and this thing full of levers and gears - but it made his demon happy, and certainly Crowley more than tolerated Aziraphale’s book collecting and other foibles. 

It took much longer than it would have taken Crowley, but Aziraphale managed to coax a lovely little ristretto into a teacup, which he carried back upstairs and set on Crowley’s end table, warning it with a stern glare to maintain its ideal temperature until the demon awoke.

Aziraphale was about to rejoin Crowley in bed when something tickled at the back of his mind. One of the books Crowley had left out on the desk, which Aziraphale had been too stressed to pay much attention to the night before, had caught his eye as he passed it this morning.

Figuring that he might as well make use of the uninterrupted reading time, Aziraphale nipped back downstairs and grabbed the book before settling back in bed.

The book was called  _ A Compendium of Crystalline Intangibles _ and claimed to be a classification guide to the invisible and undetectable powers in certain stones. Most human ideas about crystals and their supposed “magics” were absolute pish, but Crowley had insisted on checking through a handful of books on the topic anyway.

Neither Yatsarite or “Creation Stone” were listed anywhere in the book, but there were a number of entries about variations on brimstone and “demoniac sulphite,” which as far as he could tell didn’t exist. Crowley had marked some pages with paper slips, and Aziraphale flipped through them, his enthusiasm flagging.

There was clearly some system here, some underlying meaning, that was absent from all the other human texts on crystals - but it didn’t seem like Crowley had fully cracked it, and Aziraphale wasn’t confident that he’d get anywhere closer by continuing to stare at the pages.

Crowley, rousing around half nine at the scent of the drink waiting for him, rescued Aziraphale from his mounting frustration with a bleary smile. Aziraphale put the book away immediately, turning all his attentions to the half-awake demon.

“I brought you some coffee,” Aziraphale said, though Crowley was already reaching for the cup. He took a sip, made a satisfied sigh, then lifted the delicate teacup to eye level, inspecting the painted-on flowers and golden filigree. 

“Didn’t need to get so fancy,” he said with a laugh. “Couldn’t find the espresso cups?”

Indeed, Aziraphale knew exactly where the boring white cups were. He had just declined to use them on principle, since they were too plain to merit any enjoyment.

“Thought you deserved some flowers, is all.” Aziraphale leaned in to kiss softly at Crowley’s neck.

“Aren’t you worried it’ll stain your china?” Crowley peered inside the cup.

“For you, my dear, I’d dump all my tea sets over the balcony.” Aziraphale kissed Crowley again.

“Oh don’t,” Crowley pleaded. “I’d have to go with you to buy all new ones, and antique shops make me sneeze.”

Aziraphale promised that he would do nothing of the sort - neither destroy his china nor drag Crowley to an antique shop. 

When they made their way downstairs later, Aziraphale brought the  _ Compendium _ with him, but left it on his desk without mentioning it to Crowley. They could pore over it later, he reasoned. Soon after they posted up in the study, Ebarak joined them. He turned down Aziraphale’s offer of lunch, insinuating that he had eaten the night prior, and Aziraphale made a mental note to check whether the rat infestation that did an excellent job turning renters off the downstairs flat had been disrupted. 

Ebarak dropped himself heavily into one of the seats adjoining the chess set and waved an inviting hand at Crowley. “Care for a rematch?”

Crowley obliged, and again the afternoon was taken up by the elaborate performances of knaves and eunuchs, with Ebarak winning the first two matches. Sometime during the third game (during which Crowley had apparently gained the upper hand by castrating Ebarak’s pope early on) Valen began to hover at the top of the stairs, watching intently.

This became a pattern over the next few days: Valen studiously avoided Aziraphale, but was almost always a silent presence whenever Crowley and Ebarak sat down for a game. On the third day, the little blonde demon grew bold enough to come downstairs, where he hovered nervously over Crowley’s shoulder.

Occasionally, Crowley or Ebarak would attempt to draw Valen into conversation, ask him a question or nudge him to get involved with their endless mutual harangues. He would speak in a thin voice, quick bursts of one or two words, and always dart his silver eyes in Aziraphale’s direction before and after.

Though it pained him intensely, Aziraphale did his best to leave Valen alone. He spoke freely with Crowley, and was amiable with Ebarak, of course. But after he invited Valen to sit down, the demon knelt stiffly at his feet all evening; and when he offered Valen something to drink, he declined with a terrified shake of his head and disappeared upstairs soon after.

Instead, whenever Crowley and Ebarak were caught up in their games, he minded his own business, puttering around the bookshop, continuing his research, and mixing cocktails for the two demons. Ebarak, as it turned out, had a fondness for sambuca. 

So it was from the kitchen, where Aziraphale was putting away a jar of maraschino cherries and lingering near the front window to watch a tiny snail make its way across the glass, that he heard it.

Valen’s voice, piping up of its own accord, for the very first time: “see the courtesan?”

Aziraphale pressed himself to the wall as close as possible to the sitting room without being detected, listening.

“Ey!” Ebarak was shouting, “no table talk!”

“No, no,” Crowley said. “Let him speak. What was that, with the courtesan?”

Leaning around, Aziraphale could see Valen reach a slender hand out and point at one of the chess pieces without touching it. “Remember, she’s syphilitic - she can take his inquisitor in two turns, if you seduce.”

“Ah-ha!” Crowley cheered triumphantly and clapped Valen on the arm, making Aziraphale wince sympathetically at the startled look on Valen’s face. “So she can, so she can.”

Aziraphale heard the clack of stone on stone as Crowley executed the move with a flourish. 

Ebarak sounded less than thrilled. “It’s no fair, two against one. He can’t be giving you tips if he’s not playing.”

“Then he is playing,” Crowley declared. “He’s on my team. You and me, yeah?”

For the first time since the haircut, Aziraphale saw Valen smile.

***

After that, Valen always joined the demons for their games, standing close next to Crowley, sometimes even sitting beside the chess table with his knees tucked under him. Aziraphale continued to keep his well-disciplined distance, at times even hauling an armful of books upstairs so he could read alone in bed until Crowley joined him after the trio finished playing and went to bed.

It seemed to be helping. Seeing Valen a bit more at ease made it all worth it, even when Aziraphale found himself lonesome and craving company badly by the end of an evening. 

But, he reasoned, the two needed to find some way to acclimate to each other, and so he also spent time alongside the demons, making himself as unintimidating as possible, reading quietly in his plush chair. 

Sometime during the afternoon of the fourth day, Valen had apparently grown bored during a lull in the game, and let his gaze wander around the library. Aziraphale followed the demon’s eyes to a shelf heavy with antique Shakespeare editions as well as a handful of other Jacobean playwrights. 

Biting his lip, Aziraphale held himself back from saying anything. Later, though, when Valen tentatively stepped toward the shelf itself, a kind of wistfulness in his light eyes, Aziraphale broke his silence.

“You may have a look at any volume you like,” Aziraphale said in as gentle and casual a tone as he could possibly conjure. 

Valen only ducked his head down and stepped away from the shelf. His hands flew to the hem of his shirt, which Aziraphale now saw was beginning to come apart. The demon’s pale fingers were twisting a thread tightly around and around the tip of his fingertip, cutting into the flesh.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said under his breath, leaning forward in his chair to get a better look. Valen’s fingers were positively shredded - deep cracks down the cuticles, edged with blood both fresh and dried. His nails were short and ragged, and even the tips of some of his fingers were torn. It looked excruciatingly painful.

“May I please see?” Aziraphale reached out a hand toward Valen, and the demon obediently held out his arm, which was trembling. For the first time in a long while, Aziraphale made contact, taking Valen’s hand in his to examine it. 

Valen hissed in pain, or perhaps the anticipation thereof (likely both, Aziraphale concluded bitterly), at the touch. Ebarak and Crowley had paused their game and were both silently watching the scene play out.

“This looks like it hurts,” Aziraphale said. “I’d like to give you some relief, if you’ll permit. Would you prefer a miracle, or that I tend to your corporation?”

Valen did not answer. Instead, he somehow managed to shrink his body away from Aziraphale without pulling on his hand, which stayed limp in Aziraphale’s. 

In the tense quiet that followed, Aziraphale could feel Ebarak’s and Crowley’s eyes on him. He regretted everything. Surely, Crowley would scold him later for imposing himself on the little demon, and he would be right. 

Then, Crowley’s voice - not scolding but relaxed. “There’s a first-aid kit for corporations under the sink in the bathroom,” he said, then turned back to the game, addressing Ebarak. “You really going to leave your heretic two squares from my dungeon like that?”

Grateful beyond words for the lifeline Crowley had tossed him, Aziraphale stood from his chair and led Valen toward the bathroom.

“Alright, then,” Aziraphale fussed, guiding Valen to sit up on the countertop, placing him a bit above Aziraphale if he straightened his spine.

Aziraphale grabbed the first-aid kit, which was well packed and tidy. He pulled out gauze, bandages, alcohol, some antibacterial cream, and cotton balls. He unscrewed the cap on a bottle of alcohol and dabbed some on the cotton ball, the smells bringing him back to the thousands of times he’d done this before.

Reverting to his time as a war medic, Aziraphale found himself in a familiar rhythm. He knew how to calm a desperate soldier with steady hands and reassuring patter. Unfortunately, Valen was not a human shot on the battlefield, and what soothed a man shivering in a trench would not serve in these circumstances.

“Now, this might sting a little,” Aziraphale said, lifting the alcohol-soaked cotton ball.

Valen nodded meekly, tears gathering at the edges of his lashes. “Yes, Master,” he said, barely audible. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale dropped the cotton ball into the sink as if it had burned him, and managed to knock the entire bottle of alcohol over with a clatter. “No, no, oh, Valen, I’m so sorry.”

Aziraphale bent down to try and catch Valen’s eye, still holding the demon’s hand. “This isn’t meant to be a punishment,” he explained. “I only want to help.”

Valen kept his head bowed, but looked up through his silver-blonde hair and gave Aziraphale a questioning gaze. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Aziraphale promised, reaching instead for the tube of antibacterial cream, which advertised a pain-numbing effect as well. “Look, we won’t use the sting-y stuff, okay?”

When Valen gave no more indications of fear, Aziraphale got started. The demon’s hands were in a terrible state. Aziraphale guessed that most of the initial damage had been done after his outburst at the breakfast table, when Valen had been hiding in his room anticipating punishment. And of course none of it could heal, not with Valen constantly picking at the injuries.

Aziraphale dabbed a bit of cream on Valen’s index finger, making sure to apply it liberally. Valen’s breathing was shallow and tight, but he was tolerating the ministrations well enough. When Aziraphale wrapped a bandage over the area, though, Valen whimpered slightly. 

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale cooed. “I’m sure it’s sore, I know.” 

Valen, to Aziraphale’s shock, had brought the knuckles of his other hand to his mouth, and was biting down on still-fresh wounds. “I’ll be good,” he breathed, lips barely moving around his finger.

Aziraphale sighed. Valen really seemed to think Aziraphale’s intentions were sinister, and he couldn’t think of anything he might say to dissuade the demon.  _ Go ahead and make noise _ might come off as a sadistic desire to hear Valen cry out.  _ I’m sorry I didn’t notice sooner _ sounded like Aziraphale regretted a missed opportunity to enforce some kind of foul rules.

Instead, he went with a question he hoped would be just enough of a non-sequitur to work. “Do you know why we vocalize when something hurts us?”

Valen shook his head.

“Humans do it too,” Aziraphale mused. “And animals. Anything that feels pain, really. It’s a release. Makes it feel better, or at least easier to endure.”

Valen said nothing, but his posture was nothing if not attentive. He finally dropped the hand he’d been chewing on into his lap.

“It does help - I’ve seen it enough times to know.” Realizing how that sounded, Aziraphale quickly added, “working with the humans - they do love their wars. It’s where I learned to do this.”

Was it his hopeful imagination, or had Valen relaxed the tiniest bit as Aziraphale was talking? 

“Anyhow,” Aziraphale continued, “demanding someone keep their silence through any torment increases their suffering threefold, at least. Pain demands an exit, or else it just stays knotted up inside.”

Valen was now peeking sidelong at Aziraphale, clearly listening. 

“Is that what they did to you?” Aziraphale hazarded a question. “Hurt you, and made you stay quiet when they did?”

A small pause, and then: “Sometimes.”

“Well I have to say -” here Aziraphale paused, finding what he hoped were the right words, “that was absolutely cruel and unjust, in several ways.”

Valen was still again, his eyes back on the tile floor.

“Now I don’t intend for this to hurt,” Aziraphale said, “but it can’t be comfortable. If you feel any pain, you go ahead and let it out. It’s alright.”

Aziraphale waited a second for his words to sink in before beginning on the next finger, where one of the wounds was deep and angry. “I’m going to start now, and you do whatever you like.”

He smeared more cream on, and Valen let out a squeak of pain. 

“That’s good, there you go,” Aziraphale coached. When he bandaged this finger, he let himself apply a bit more pressure. Valen whined, and Aziraphale continued his praise and encouragement. “Good, you’ve got it. There you are, it’s alright.”

“Owwww,” Valen moaned as Aziraphale coated one particularly shredded cuticle in balm. 

Given the horrors he’d witnessed at the auction party, and the state Ebarak had been in, Aziraphale had to assume that a bit of agitation on these small, self-inflicted cuts wasn’’t well representative of the true agonies Valen had suffered. But the situation now unfolding had very little to do with the actual mechanics of what Aziraphale was doing.

Aziraphale only kept on with his rewarding words, and by the time Aziraphale had finished with one hand, Valen was openly crying. Aziraphale was rather proud of himself for having coaxed the frightened demon into such a release.

As the angel had suspected, Valen’s tears took him somewhere far beyond the banalities of a bleeding finger. He hardly reacted as the angel made quick, efficient work of his second hand, caught up in wounds much deeper than the ones Aziraphale was tending.

Once he was finished, Aziraphale tidied the first aid supplies away. On the counter beside him, Valen dropped his bandaged hands into his lap and continued his steady crying.

Aziraphale held out an arm to Valen, intending to help him make the small hop off the bathroom counter. Much to the angel’s surprise, Valen instead collapsed into him, sobbing even harder now. Aziraphale lowered them both down to the plush rug on the floor and maneuvered Valen into his lap. Not sure what else to do, he started gently rocking the little demon, rubbing his back in what he hoped was a soothing rhythm. Valen just curled into himself and sobbed, overcome and entirely lost in the rush of his own grief, and pain, and all else that was contained in his tears.

After a few moments, no doubt drawn by the plaintive wails, Crowley appeared in the bathroom doorway. He cocked his head and gave Aziraphale a quizzical look. Aziraphale could only reply with a shrug. Crowley gave a tentative thumbs up, and Aziraphale responded with a hopeful smile. 

They remained there until the sun began to set, Valen eventually quieting after his long crying jag. Aziraphale waited a bit longer, until it seemed that Valen had either fallen asleep or was working hard to feign so, then carried him into his room. It was nearly impossible to navigate the piles of pillows and blankets. The only surface not covered by Valen’s collection was the top of the dresser, where Aziraphale had set the collage book and pen. They were in the exact same place Aziraphale had left them, but Aziraphale could see chew marks on the end of the pen, and the same fingernail divots on the book’s edges that had appeared on his old book when Valen first arrived.

Fighting the urge to snatch up the book and look through everything Valen might have circled, Aziraphale left it alone. Picking his way around the nest-like mounds on the floor, Aziraphale managed to make it to the bed without tripping badly enough to disturb Valen. He tucked the little demon in, dabbing his wet face with a handkerchief before creeping clumsily back out of the warren-like room.

Aziraphale did not return to the library, where he knew Crowley and Ebarak were still playing. Certainly Ebarak had heard Valen crying - did he think Aziraphale had been hurting him? Aziraphale could hardly explain to himself how making Valen cry like that had been a victory rather than a cruelty, and he didn’t think he could stand to see how Ebarak might look at him.

Instead, he wandered into the bedroom, which felt empty and useless without Crowley in it. He paced, straining to hear the occasional shouted banter that made its way upstairs. When would Crowley be done with his games? Aziraphale badly needed someone to talk to.

But Crowley stayed up long into the night, and eventually Aziraphale settled himself in the room’s one chair, resigned to spending his time reading instead of chatting under the covers with his beloved.

***

Rationally, Aziraphale knew that his sense of resentment from the night before had nothing to do with what happened that morning. God, he knew by now, did not engage with the affairs of other beings on a minute enough scale for this to be Divine favor or retribution or anything in between. 

It was a simple coincidence. It didn’t matter that he, in his private frustration, had regretted Ebarak’s presence. No cosmic force was acting out on behalf of his jealousy.

It wasn’t his fault.

Still, he felt somehow responsible, when he picked up the phone that morning and heard Nephriel’s voice on the other end. He felt no relief at the prospect of Ebarak leaving, but it made him guilty anyway, remembering how badly he had wished for Crowley’s undivided attention the night before. 

“Hey, Aziraphale! How are things going with my demon?”

Aziraphale, still reeling, willed himself to come up with an answer. The truth was that Ebarak was stretched out in the library, preening his wings for the umpteenth time, after a night spent out flying in his hawk form.

“Just splendidly,” he said. 

“Great!” Nephriel sounded relieved. “I was hoping I could pick him up tonight, if that’s okay?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. “That soon?”

“You’ve had him for ten days already,” Nephriel said. “Do you think he needs more time?”

“Er,” Aziraphale stalled. “It’s just that -”

“Because if he’s still misbehaving with you, it might be beyond both of our abilities. We should probably tell Michael -”

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to interrupt. “No, no, nothing of the sort! He’s been…” Aziraphale cast about his mind, desperate for the right word. “He’s come along very well.”

“That’s perfect! Gabriel is having a bunch of us together this week, and I really hoped I’d be able to show him off.” Aziraphale fought to keep his breakfast down. “He’s really proud of me for bringing Ramael in, and I wanted him to see my demon’s progress, too.”

“Ramael?” Aziraphale couldn’t remember meeting another angel by that name.

“My friend, from Textual Inspirations. The one who’s been interested in purification. She’s going to come around and talk to Gabriel and Michael, and they’re having a handful of angels over to talk to her about getting her first demon charge.”

“Oh.”

“We can’t all be like you, who figured it out all on your own. Part of the responsibility of working with demons is showing other angels how, and why, it’s done. The more of Heaven joins us, the less of Hell will remain.” Nephriel sounded positively giddy. “You should come, too!”

“I don’t think - I mean, if I wasn’t invited -”

“I’ll ask Gabriel. But I’m sure it’ll be fine! Anyway, I’ll come by around 5, earth time.”

Aziraphale wanted to argue with her, wanted to demand that Ebarak stay with him. But there was nothing to say.

“I’ll let him know.”

This seemed to confuse Nephriel. “Sure, alright.” A pause, then her voice was back to the friendly cheer she only used because she thought Aziraphale was her ally. “See you soon, Aziraphale!”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale prepare to say goodbye to Ebarak. He doesn't exactly make it easy.

Helpless rage coursed through Aziraphale as he slammed the receiver down hard enough to crack the plastic. He didn’t bother repairing it with a miracle. He would be happy if the cursed thing never rang again. No more Nephriel, no more archangels, no more crystals, no more demons looking at him with haunted eyes.

He ran back over the conversation in his mind, sick with himself. He hadn’t even tried. How could he simply hand Ebarak back over to be brutalized and erased? But how could he do otherwise? There were so many more demons up there, suffering, trapped - if he didn’t keep up the charade, he wouldn’t be able to help any of them. 

And what about Valen? He had only just begun to trust Aziraphale - had let the angel help him, touch him, even hold him last night. What would he think when he saw Aziraphale send Ebarak off to his doom? The tiny victory Aziraphale had scraped out would be gone, and Valen would see that Aziraphale was just another  _ Master _ , trading demons like chattel and treating them even worse. 

Hot tears pricked in Aziraphale’s eyes. He hadn’t done enough for Ebarak. He hadn’t stood up to Nephriel. He hadn’t figured out any kind of solution. He couldn’t protect himself, and Crowley, and Valen, and Ebarak, and everyone else, all at the same time.

It was possible that he couldn’t protect any of them.

***

The two demons were in the study, Ebarak fondling his wings in the morning sunlight, Crowley lazily transcribing some poorly scratched demonic runes from an old pamphlet Aziraphale thought might be promising.

“Erm,” Aziraphale said, standing awkwardly in the entryway. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, uncomfortably aware that he had much less of a right to be upset at the change in circumstances than Ebarak. “That was Nephriel. On the phone. Just now.”

“Guess my stay at the  _ Chateau Angel _ is over,” Ebarak said, not looking up from the already perfect feather he was smoothing down.

Crowley did look up, fixing Aziraphale with a look that held sadness, and love, and strength, and everything else Aziraphale needed from his beloved in that moment.

“I - I’m so sorry.” Aziraphale was ashamed of the cracks in his voice. “I could try and - I’ll call her back, and - we could -”

“It’s alright.” Ebarak waved his hand with an airy casualness that stunned Aziraphale into silence. “Cushiest ‘training’ I ever got.”

“She’s coming tonight, at five,” Aziraphale nearly mumbled. “If there’s anything you’d like to do, today, anything you’d like to eat -”

“Demons don’t get last rites,” Ebarak said with a dark little laugh.

“It won’t be forever,” Aziraphale promised, twisting his hands together. “I promise. Crowley and I, we’re working on...something. A way to end all this.”

“Sure,” Ebarak said, as if he were humoring Aziraphale.

A pause. Then, Crowley spoke up. “What are you going to tell her?”

“I thought I’d recommend more, er, humane treatment. Insinuate that whatever behaviors she had a problem with were caused, not solved, by her violence.”

Ebarak finally looked up from his wing and made eye contact with Aziraphale. “And you think she’ll listen?”

By now, Aziraphale couldn’t stop the tears from falling. “I hope so,” he said. “And I think we should develop a signal. Some kind of behavior that I’ll tell her, if she observes it in you, she should bring you right back here. That way, if you need to come back, you just do that.”

Another sarcastic laugh from Ebarak. “Right.”

“What’s the matter with his plan?” Crowley didn’t sound defensive, but he didn’t sound gentle either. 

_ We’re trying to help you _ , Aziraphale thought, glad that Crowley had stepped in.  _ But you have to let us, instead of insisting everything we try is pointless. _

Ebarak appeared to consider Crowley’s question for a moment. The lack of a quick, dismissive answer surprised Aziraphale. 

“I don’t think she pays enough attention to me to notice much of a change in behavior. She just wants total obedience. Anything besides that, it all looks the same to her.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale wiped his eyes again.

“And I’m not stupid. I don’t know what she told you, but I’m not ‘defiant.’ I don’t want to get hurt any more than I have to, so I wouldn’t go out of my way to provoke her. But with this thrice-damned mark on my back, I’m as weak as a human. Can’t control things like she wants. Then she just makes it harder, like that’ll solve anything. Vicious little cycle we’re in.”

Aziraphale remembered Ebarak back at Nephriel’s little gathering; how he did seem to be trying to obey until his arms gave out under the weight of the books.

A knot formed in his chest, heavy and tight with guilt. How had he let ten days go by without talking to Ebarak about any of this? Sure, he and Crowley had been messing about with books on crystals and sigils, but they had done nothing to plan with Ebarak for his eventual return. Here he was, telling them matter-of-fact information about his own enslavement, and it was at the last minute, when it was too late. He should have asked, should have been brave enough to sit with all these terrible truths, rather than burying his head and pretending he could avoid it if he just let life go on as normal.

“I’ll tell her,” Aziraphale said, swallowing hard. “I’m supposed to be some kind of expert here - whatever they think I did to ‘tame’ Crowley. I’ll explain that her methods are counterproductive. That she ought to be gentler with you.”

“Alright,” Ebarak said, his tone back to being clipped and bitter. 

“For the signal,” Crowley joined back in, “she seemed pretty freaked out about you trying to open your back up. Didn’t want Gabriel to know about it.”

“No, no.” Aziraphale was horrified by the suggestion. “He doesn’t need to -”

“Say it’s some kind of, I don’t know, repeated behavior thing.” Crowley shrugged. “If she catches him rubbing his back on her shelves, she should pop him back round here for a check up.”

“Is that alright with you?” Aziraphale looked at Ebarak, trying to read the demon’s generally expressionless face.

“Why not.” Ebarak shifted his wings behind him. “Just act like I’m half-heartedly trying to make a permanent exit, and hope she takes me back here. Got it.” He didn’t sound remotely invested, and Aziraphale could tell Ebarak had no expectation that he’d have any power to remove himself to Aziraphale’s again.

A thousand words formed behind Aziraphale’s tongue - exhortations that Ebarak consider this a temporary solution; promises of eventual freedom; pleas for Ebarak not to give up and to use this signal if he needs to; reminders that he has friends and allies here; coaching on how to keep himself as safe as possible once he returns to Nephriel.

None of it would be helpful, or appropriate. So he swallowed all that threatened to spill out from him. He could share it all with Crowley, later.

“I wish we didn’t have to,” Aziraphale said, feeling tears well in his eyes as he met Ebarak’s.

“It’s alright,” the demon said, a sarcastic smile playing at his lips. “What is it? ‘ _ To everything there is a season _ ?’”

“Please,” Aziraphale whispered, knowing he had no right to ask anything of this demon, and knowing he would have to anyway, since he could not bear Ebarak’s joking tone, could not abide the use of Scripture, even facetiously, to excuse what was being done. “Don’t.”

Ebarak’s smile didn’t disappear, but he didn’t say anything else.

“I’m going to go speak with Valen,” Aziraphale declared, then rather stiffly removed himself from the company of the two demons and headed upstairs. 

Without a door to knock on, Aziraphale resorted to tapping on the doorjamb and pulling aside the blankets that hung in the doorway so he could peek in.

“Hi, Valen, may I speak with you?”

Valen was on the floor, buried in blankets, intently studying the collage book. His head snapped up as soon as he heard Aziraphale, but he didn’t say anything.

“I have something to tell you,” Aziraphale tried again. “Would you prefer me to stay here, or may I come into your room?”

Valen slowly set the book aside, then straightened up, sloughing the blankets off his shoulders. He made a motion with his hand that seemed to indicate that Aziraphale was welcome in his room.

“Yes, thank you.” Aziraphale slid past the hanging blankets. Feeling very aware of himself as he towered over the seated demon, he decided to sit down on the floor too, choosing another pile of blankets and pillows.

What he had expected to be an odd lumpy mess was in fact very comfortable, and he felt himself sinking into the sensation. “You’ve made your room very nice,” he said.

“Thank you.” 

“What I came in to tell you is that our friend Ebarak is leaving tonight.” Aziraphale cringed internally at his odd choice of words. Valen was not a child, as much as he might seem innocent and vulnerable. “He is going back to live with - with the angel who thinks she owns him.”

Valen had no visible reaction to this news. Aziraphale had half-hoped he would be angry, that he would blame Aziraphale, would argue and insist that Ebarak be allowed to stay.

“It wasn’t my choice,” Aziraphale continued. “Right now, I can’t control what happens to him. I wish I could keep him safe. But I can’t. And I’m very, very sorry for that.”

He wanted so badly to reach out to Valen, to hold his hand, to show the demon how desperately sincere he was. But even after last night, he wasn’t sure whether that would be wise.

“I came to tell you this because I want you to know that you are safe here. I can’t protect Ebarak from the other angels right now, but I can protect you, and I will.”

He wanted to follow up with  _ Do you understand? _ Or, even worse,  _ Do you believe me? _ But he’d only get those meek little assents that seemed trained into the little demon.

So he just plowed on. “I also wanted to let you know that it might be frightening. I don’t have the right to tell you where to go, or to confine you to your room. You’re free to go wherever you like. However, as your...friend, I wanted to warn you that Nephriel will be here.”

It felt wrong to call Valen his friend. They certainly were not friends. Valen hated him - or would hate him, if he thought he was allowed to. How could anyone see their  _ owner _ , who had purchased them at auction, who appeared to be participating in a legacy of torture and enslavement, as a  _ friend _ ? Aziraphale cared for the little demon, and ached for him, but there was too much fear, too much suspicion, too much pain hanging between them for anything like friendship. 

What else could he say, though? What were they, to each other? Was there any palatable word for it?

As Aziraphale worked out in his head what to say next, he saw Valen lift a hand to his mouth, nibble at one of the bandages, then raise his other hand so he could pick at another bandage. Many of them had been torn up, their edges sticky and black with dust. At least the skin underneath looked a bit better.

“Anyhow. When Nephriel comes, there may be, er, things happening downstairs that are disturbing for you. I also worry for your safety if she sees you. She is not a nice angel. Since she is coming today, you are welcome to stay in your room, and I can come let you know when she is gone. Is that okay?” 

Valen nodded, still worrying at one of his bandages with his teeth. 

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what Valen had just agreed to, or thought he was agreeing to. Was he scared of Nephriel? Grateful for the chance to avoid her? Or was he only obeying Aziraphale, having heard the request to stay in his room without absorbing much of the context?

He didn’t know. And he would just have to resign himself to that void, that there was some knowledge that could not be gently coaxed out of a lover or dug up from an ancient tome. 

“Alright, then.” Aziraphale stood with some difficulty, having been well enveloped by the cushions and blankets he was sitting on. 

Valen stared up at him, as if expecting to hear more.

“I’m going to go downstairs and help Ebarak. I’ll come check on you before Nephriel arrives, and see if you need anything. All right?”

Valen nodded. Aziraphale told himself it meant something and wasn’t an ingrained response. Rather than stay and make any more of a fool of himself, he swished back through the blanket-door.

***

Ebarak, still sitting on the floor with his wings spread, spoke as soon as Aziraphale returned. “What’s the plan for ginger and blondie?”

“Pardon?”

“When Nephriel comes. Can’t exactly have him wandering around like he owns the place.” Ebarak tilted his head toward Crowley.

_ But he does _ , Aziraphale wanted to say.  _ We’re joint owners. I added him to the paperwork when he moved in. _

That was not the point. 

“I told - I asked Valen to stay out of sight,” Aziraphale said. “Crowley, perhaps you should also-”

“Looks kind of suspicious, no?” Ebarak had some kind of wicked glint in his eyes that Aziraphale tried to ignore. “Champion slave breaker, doesn’t have either of his out to show?”

“That’s - that’s not - uh -”

Crowley rescued Aziraphale from his stammering. “What do you think?” He met Ebarak’s gaze with a hardness of his own. “Same as last time?”

Aziraphale remembered Crowley, shirtless, head bowed, silently witnessing as Nephriel dropped Ebarak off like some kind of malfunctioning machine. He didn’t think he could stand it again, even just as an act, treating Crowley like a slave, here, where they lived. Together.

“Well, you’ll want all those pretty clothes off, for one thing.”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “Crowley is not stripping naked in his own home. I won’t have it.”

Ebarak shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

“That’s not what I meant! You know that’s not what I meant.” Aziraphale took a deep, shaky breath, worried about Valen hearing him raise his voice. “Please,” he said, softer now. 

_ Please just tell me what to do. Please make this easier on me. Please. _

But Ebarak had no interest in making any of this easier on Aziraphale, which Aziraphale supposed was his right. Still, he seemed almost to enjoy twisting the knife as he set his dark, keen eyes on Aziraphale’s and said “You’ll have to rough me up a bit, too.”

“No,” Aziraphale said, his voice weak. “No, I can’t -”

“Doesn’t make sense,” Crowley said evenly. “If he says hurting you doesn’t work, why would he?”

Ebarak sighed. “You healed me all the way, first night I came here, right?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“Looks suspect, doesn’t it? I’ve got to go back with  _ some _ bruises, or she’ll know you were coddling me. She won’t know the difference if it’s not the same ones I came with.”

Every implication there made Aziraphale want to throw himself out the window and into oncoming traffic. 

“I…” Aziraphale couldn’t say no, he couldn’t deny Ebarak’s simple logic. He couldn’t shirk his responsibilities any longer. After all, hadn’t he brought the poor demon home, under his care, as his charge? How could he think that he had any right to hide from the painful reality, when Ebarak had no such luxury? “I…” he tried again.

“How about this, angel.” Crowley rose from his seat and walked over to put an arm around Aziraphale, guiding him into the kitchen. “Eb and I will come up with a plan for this evening, and why don’t you make everyone a nice lunch?”

Aziraphale nodded, feeling pathetic.

“Maybe head out to the shops, see if you can find some quail to roast?”

Aziraphale didn’t want to leave - well, he didn’t want to want to leave. It felt like a dereliction, abandoning a job he ought to stay and do. But he did like the idea of some fresh air, some time away from the flat.

“Okay.”

Crowley kissed him, then pulled back and gave him a loving smile. “It’ll be alright, angel. We’ll figure it out.”

Aziraphale nodded again, worried he’d burst into tears again if he tried to speak, and hurried out the side door.

***

Aziraphale was able to find some quail at a little market a few neighborhoods away. He grabbed some carrots, celery and potatoes to roast alongside them, though he knew Ebarak wouldn’t touch them.

Though he took as long as he dared dallying at the shops, Aziraphale was keenly aware of the need to be home with enough time to fully roast the quail before they had to start the miserable work of preparing for Nephriel’s return. He headed back toward the bookshop and flat, the grocery-laden bag swinging at his side.

As he got closer, Aziraphale saw a dark shape high in the sky. Squinting upwards, he recognised it as none other than Ebarak taking his mighty wings for a spin. Though he usually flew at night, none of the humans out on the street today seemed to notice, and Aziraphale figured Crowley had helped ensure that his friend - for they were friends, weren’t they, Crowley and Ebarak, at least? - could take one final flight without attracting too much attention.

He kept his eye on the demon as he walked, watching him spiral upwards. But as Aziraphale approached his block, it became apparent that something was very wrong. Ebarak was plummeting downwards, his wings tucked in close, head pointed at the concrete below.

With a cry of concern, Aziraphale started running, the grocery bag whacking against his legs, toward the spot that Ebarak was rapidly falling toward. He shoved his free hand in his pocket, wrapping his fist around the wood and trying to channel - what, what did he need to send to Ebarak? He didn’t even know what was happening! Had he been gone too long, robbing the demon of the angelic essence he required in place of his own? Or was Ebarak trying to discorporate himself rather than be returned to Nephriel’s custody?

“ _ Ebarak! _ ” Aziraphale screamed, ignoring the confused passerby. He skidded to a stop just as Ebarak crashed into the pavement.

To his amazement, the demon only stayed in a heap of limbs and wings for a second or two before standing up and shaking himself out. He had a terrible scrape on one side of his face that was already starting to darken and swell, and one shoulder hung a bit lower than it ought.

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale was beside himself with baffled concern. 

Ebarak shrugged, then winced, then grinned. “Looks about right, do you think? Or should I take another go at it?”

Aziraphale choked back a gasp. The demon had done that to himself - done it on purpose, done it to himself, because it needed to be done, and because Aziraphale had refused. 

“I - I don’t -” he began, but Ebarak only started limping toward the bookshop’s front door.

“We did it all the time.” Ebarak pulled the door open with his good arm and Aziraphale followed him inside. “Little game, see how bad you could bust yourself up, or whether you could pull up in time to only take the blows you’d called ahead of time.”

Aziraphale could hardly fathom such a ‘game.’ He remembered what Crowley had said about Ebarak, his role in Hell - a Cicatrix - and figured there was a lot about this being he didn’t yet understand.

Ebarak was wandering back to his usual spot in the sitting room, rolling his neck and testing out his new injuries. “Only difference is we could pop ourselves back in place right after.”

Aziraphale almost offered to fix the demon back up, but realized that would defeat the entire purpose. Crowley looked Ebarak over, gave him a thumbs up, then turned to Aziraphale. “So are we having quail for lunch, or what?”

***

He spent the afternoon in the kitchen cooking, listening to the serious tones of Crowley and Ebarak in the living room and the occasional bout of laughter. What, he wondered, could they possibly be entertained by, in all the bleakness of the day?

If he wasn’t such a coward, he told himself as he chopped a carrot with far more menace than the vegetable deserved, he’d know. He’d go back in there, sit down with the two demons, and participate. He wouldn’t hide from the conversation just because it was unpleasant.

He had timed it so that the birds would be ready around 3:30, giving them plenty of time to eat, and then...get ready.

“It’s time to eat,” he said in as bright a tone as he could muster, poking his head around the corner. Both demons rose and followed him into the kitchen, where, Aziraphale had to admit, he had done a good job setting out a feast.

_ Never thought I’d be cooking someone their last meal _ , he thought, and immediately busied himself with the wine opener.

Ebarak stood beside his chair, shifting his massive wings. “Would you mind?”

“Oh! Right, of course.” Aziraphale reached into his pocket and touched the now-familiar wood and crystal, allowing Ebarak to withdraw his wings. They had fallen into a fairly easy rhythm with that; Ebarak saying things like ‘I think I’ll have a flight outside’ or declaring it ‘preening time,’ allowing Aziraphale to subtly tap his crystal without any further discussion. No one had to ask Aziraphale for permission and everyone got to play along with the polite fiction that Aziraphale suspected was more for his benefit than the demon’s sense of dignity.

Ebarak slid into his seat, and Aziraphale took his place, pouring wine and passing around the gravy boat, trying not to think about the hawk demon’s glorious wings, the easy way he handled them, the fact that they would be trapped away for who knows how long.

_ Not too long _ , he resolved.  _ I’ll figure this out. Crowley and I, we’ll figure this out _ .

Dinner went all too fast, no matter how Aziraphale tried to drag it out by surprising Ebarak with a second whole quail, all for him, as a dessert. Soon enough it was 4:30, and a restless sadness filled the kitchen, one so strong Aziraphale wondered if Valen could feel it all the way upstairs.

The pile of chains had stayed at the far end of the entryway where Aziraphale had kicked it when Nephriel first brought Ebarak over. Together, they approached it now. Crowley had disappeared somewhere, no doubt to make his own...preparations.

Ebarak began to undress, setting his crisp white shirt and pinstripe pants on the floor, folded loosely.

“I’ll - we’ll keep them for you, in your room, in your wardrobe,” Aziraphale promised. “They’ll be right here for you, for when you come back.”

“Sure,” Ebarak said, sounding like he had no expectations of ever seeing the sharp, 40s-era clothes again. “Thanks.” He slid out of his underwear and knelt next to the chains, settling his body into the familiar submissive posture.

Aziraphale picked up the heavy collar and made to set it around the demon’s neck, then stopped, unable to complete the task. 

“I can’t,” he said, the metal shaking in his hands. “There has to be some other way. I’ll tell Nephriel we need more time, I’ll offer to buy you, I’ll -”

“Stop.” Ebarak’s voice was low and brooked no argument. He reached out and took Aziraphale’s hands, guiding them toward himself.

Aziraphale steeled himself and latched the collar, then picked up one of the chains. Ebarak was right. This had to be done. To avoid it any longer would put him, and Crowley, and Valen, and all the demons they were trying to save, at risk.

As he worked, he could feel Ebarak retreating inside himself. The sharp-witted, chess-playing hawk disappeared, leaving in its place a shell of a creature, back bowed, eyes blank.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale whispered, resting his hands on Ebarak’s head, knowing this scrap of gentleness would not be nearly enough to get him through whatever was coming.

***

Aziraphale was in for a number of unpleasant surprises that evening.

The first was the sight of Crowley, who had taken all his clothes off and chained himself to the banister, standing in the living room with his hands over his head. He had drawn his hair out to past his shoulders and combed it into thick curls that cascaded down his back, covering the spot where a tattoo and crystal shard would have been.

He looked starkly beautiful, his wrists chained to the banister, his back a bare expanse of taut skin. But there was an awfulness to the scene, the threat of a different and terrible future, of what was to come if they failed in the great mission they had stumbled into undertaking.

“I love you,” Aziraphale whispered, drawing the curtain of hair back to kiss Crowley’s neck gently.

Crowley flashed him a smile and batted his lashes, then tossed his head in the direction of the entryway. “You’ve got this, angel.”

The second, and far less pleasant, surprise was the fact that the Archangel Gabriel had accompanied Nephriel on her errand. 

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel boomed, his arms spread wide for a too-friendly embrace. 

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale said, primarily for Crowley’s sake. “What an unexpected surprise!”

Nephriel was looking Ebarak over, nudging at the chains with the toe of her shoe. “How was he?”

“Oh, most excellent,” Aziraphale said. “Once we came to an understanding. I do believe I have much to share about how best to handle that one.” If he couldn’t get Ebarak out of there just yet, he would do all he could to convince Nephriel of the merits of a more hands-off approach. “You see, I found that -”

“Sorry to interrupt, champ,” Gabriel cut in, clapping a heavy hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You’ll have to catch Nephie up on your little protocols later. I just came down to invite you to a talk Michael and I are hosting. We have a few new angels interested in taking on the task of demonic purification, and we’d like to talk more in depth. I told her you’re already well on board, but she wants you there, too.”

“It’s the thing I told you about,” Nephriel explained. 

“Oh. Yes,” Aziraphale said. He had no desire to attend anymore slaver get-togethers, but he knew he had to insinuate himself further, if he was going to make any headway. “I’d love to. When is it?”

“Tomorrow night,” Gabriel said. “That’s why I wanted to come down and invite you in person. And have a look at what you did with Nephriel’s little terror. We were thinking he might have to be baptized there, for a while.”

“Mmhmm.” Aziraphale gave a tight smile as Gabriel glanced at Ebarak. He did not know what that meant, and just filed it away as yet another avenue for investigation.

Then Gabriel took a step toward Crowley, and Aziraphale suppressed a protective urge to leap between them. The archangel looked approvingly at Crowley’s posture, then turned back to Aziraphale. “Where’s your other one? The one you got at auction?”

“Oh, he’s - I put him upstairs, in his room.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “A whole room for them?” Aziraphale did not like how satisfied and impressed Gabriel sounded, nor the cruel twinkle in his eye. “You really do have a lot to teach us.”

“It would be my honor,” Aziraphale said. 

It was all he could do to restrain himself as Nephriel dragged Ebarak roughly to his feet. “He does seem better behaved,” she said, giving the demon a few completely unprovoked whacks to the head. 

“Do call me,” Aziraphale nearly begged her, “as soon as you get home. I would - er - I would hate for him to backslide.”

“Of course she will,” Gabriel said. “But we’ve got to go now - lots to do Upstairs. You know how it is!”

Aziraphale did not ‘know how it was,’ but he kept his false smile plastered on as he waved goodbye.

“Thanks again!” Nephriel called, and with a snap and a flash, they were gone.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the help of Valen's "things I like" scrapbook assignment, Crowley and Aziraphale figure out some things that the little demon enjoys. Everyone has a lovely picnic. 
> 
> Then Nephriel calls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the last domestic chapter for a while. We are rounding the corner into Act 2, folks. Those who wanted to see more of the angelic demon-capturing cult, get ready!

As soon as Gabriel and Nephriel left with Ebarak, Aziraphale rushed to Crowley’s side, frantic to unchain his beloved.

“Really, Crowley,” he muttered as he rubbed the demon’s arms. “You didn’t need to - to be so -”

“Convincing?” Crowley’s expression flickered through an uncharacteristic seriousness before settling on a teasing smile.

“I suppose.” Aziraphale still wasn’t happy seeing Crowley done up like a slave, though he did appreciate the help as he tried to end whatever atrocities the angels were up to. Crowley snapped his fingers and manifested his clothing, then folded Aziraphale into a gentle embrace.

After the misery of the afternoon, Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to curl up with a mug of cocoa and a good book, Crowley nestled beside him. But he didn’t want to leave Valen shut up in his bedroom any longer than necessary. 

“I ought to go check on Valen,” he said, reluctantly extricating himself from Crowley’s arms. 

When he knocked on the door jamb and peeked in around the curtains, the little demon was nowhere to be seen. 

“Valen?” Aziraphale said, his anxiety rising. 

He could sense the demon’s presence and knew he couldn’t have gone far, but it was uncommon not to see him curled up in one of his nests on the floor or the larger blanket den of the bed. “It’s alright, you can come out now.”

Aziraphale heard a tiny whimper and bent down to peer under the bed. Valen was pressed up against the wall, his pale blue eyes wide, one hand up by his mouth as usual. At the sight of Aziraphale, he scooched up even tighter against the wall.

Aziraphale held out a hand to try and coax Valen out from under the bed. “You’re safe, I promise.”

Valen only stared at Aziraphale’s outstretched hand. Aziraphale could see that he was trembling.

“They’re gone. The bad angels, they’re not here anymore.”

Valen looked at him with suspicion, but he seemed to relax the tiniest bit. 

“Ebarak is gone too,” Aziraphale continued, his voice cracking. He made no attempt to hide his pain at the other demon’s departure. “I’m so sorry. I can’t keep him safe like I can with you. Not yet. But I’m trying my best.”

Valen whispered something that Aziraphale couldn’t make out.

“I’m sorry, dear, what was that?”

“Please…” Valen’s words were still quiet, and muffled by the finger in his mouth, but Aziraphale strained to listen, letting his angelic senses heighten. “Please don’t send me away. Don’t let them take me.”

“Oh. Oh, no, no no no.” Aziraphale sat down beside the bed, still bent over so he could see Valen where he was hiding. “Never. Not ever. You live here, this is your home. You’re safe here. I promise.”

Valen’s eyes flashed with something that could have been hope. “I...I did the book.” He pointed a shaky finger out toward the bedroom. “Like you wanted.”

“That’s excellent!” Aziraphale did his best to ignore the fact that Valen thought his assignment in the scrapbook was an order that he could please his “master” by completing, and to just focus on praising and reassuring the frightened little demon. “I’m so proud of you. Thank you. Now that you’ve let me know what kinds of things you like, I can try and help you feel more comfortable and welcome.”

Valen nodded, still biting at his hand. Aziraphale could see a tattered bandage dangling from one of the demon’s slender fingers.

“Would you like me to clean up your hands again, like last time? Bandages like that ought to be changed. I’ll be just as gentle, I promise.”

Valen took his hand out of his mouth and examined it. Aziraphale took that as a good sign.

“Come on,” he cooed, “come on out from there. Let’s get you some nice new plasters, alright?”

Valen slinked out from under the bed, straightening up his spine with a fluid motion that reminded Aziraphale of those children’s toys shaped like springs. 

“We’ll go into the bathroom again, just like last time.”

Once they were in the well-lit hallway, Aziraphale got a good look at the demon’s hands. The ointment had helped, and many of the smaller cuts looked much better. But it seemed he had been picking and worrying at the bandages, and their edges were black with grime where the adhesive had peeled up. 

“It can hurt sometimes, pulling the plasters off,” Aziraphale explained, keeping his voice cheerful and steady. “I don’t want to hurt you, so we’ll soak them in some warm water first, okay? That helps the old ones come off. Then we’ll use more cream, and give you all new bandages. Make sense?”

Valen nodded, standing awkwardly in the center of the bathroom. 

Aziraphale guided him to sit down on the fluffy mat next to the bathtub, then started to fill the tub with warm water. Valen winced and cringed away from the slowly rising water, so Aziraphale splashed his own hand under the faucet to try and reassure him. “See? It’s just plain warm water. It can’t hurt you. It’s supposed to feel nice.”

When the tub was about half full, Aziraphale shut off the water and reached for Valen’s hand. “We’ll just rest it in the water here, just for a few minutes,” he explained, unsure whether his continued patter was helping, but at a loss for what else to do.

Valen allowed his hand to be guided into the water, then gave a tiny smile once he made contact with the water and seemed to realize that it truly wasn’t going to hurt. He swished around in the tub, careful not to splash, and looked up at Aziraphale questioningly, raising his other hand.

“Yes, go ahead, put both in there!” Aziraphale rolled up his sleeves and joined Valen to play in the water. He curled his fingers into a fist and squeezed, sending little sprays squirting upward. The little demon jumped in surprise, then - blessed be all, he  _ laughed. _

It was a startled little giggle, only present for a moment, but Aziraphale had heard it clear as a bell. 

“That’s it!” Aziraphale could hardly contain his joy. “It’s nice, right? Later you can take a full bath, if you’d like. For now, let’s see about these hands.”

Valen gave Aziraphale his hand willingly. Aziraphale delicately removed the waterlogged and half-shredded plasters, dropping them into the wastebasket.

“You did a very good job, letting these heal,” Aziraphale said, turning over Valen’s hand to examine the remaining injuries. “It probably helped, having something to pick at that wasn’t your skin, didn’t it? These plasters are meant to be disposable, so it’s perfectly alright.”

Valen nodded, but he wouldn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes, tucking his chin against his shoulder shyly. Best to drop that subject, Aziraphale figured.

He finished removing the plasters from Valen’s other hand, then took a moment to scrub off the remaining adhesive. Leaving Valen to stay seated on the bathmat, where he seemed mostly content, Aziraphale retrieved a fresh cloth and the first aid kit, returning to sit cross-legged next to Valen.

“Just like last time, remember? You do whatever you need to do. Okay?”

Valen took a shaky breath. It was clear that the little demon was being very brave. “Okay.”

Aziraphale got to work. First he dried off Valen’s hands, rubbing softly with the cloth. Valen closed his eyes, his breath hitching. When Aziraphale started to dab on the antibiotic cream, Valen whined, tiny sounds that broke Aziraphale’s heart. And as he started to wrap each wound with its own plaster, Valen began to cry. He fell against Aziraphale’s shoulder, and as soon as the angel was finished with the bandages, he wrapped one arm around Valen’s slim back and rubbed slow circles, letting Valen collapse into his lap. 

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale murmured as he held the crying demon. “It isn’t fair, how much you were hurt. It’s all so wrong. You’re safe now. I’ve got you. I’m so sorry.”

***

After Valen had cried himself out, Aziraphale carried him back to bed, picking up the scrapbook on his way back downstairs.

Crowley was standing at the big desk that had become their primary research station, poring over some tome that Aziraphale had recently gotten in from a library in Germany. 

“Best get a plan in place for this shindig tomorrow,” he said when Aziraphale returned.

“Yes, indeed.” There was a great inertial heaviness within him, though, as he considered jumping back into the high-stakes but otherwise very dull research. “Although…” He held up the scrapbook, which he had been positively dying to look through ever since he’d first seen Valen working on it. “I was rather hoping to have a peek at this first.”

Crowley walked around the desk to join Aziraphale. “What is that?”

“I made it for Valen - it’s just pictures of humans and things from magazines. I asked him to circle anything that he liked or that made him happy.”

“I remember.” Crowley flopped onto the sofa and patted the cushions, inviting Aziraphale to join. “Very sweet.”

“I just don’t feel as though I know him at all,” Aziraphale continued, settling down next to Crowley. “Who is he? What is he like? What’s the personality under all that...all the…”

“Torture?” Crowley helpfully supplied.

“Yes.” 

They both knew it was more than that. 

Centuries of enslavement, of erasure, of suffering and silence and all else besides. Ebarak seemed to retain much more of himself, but he had been Heaven’s captive for less than a quarter of the time Valen had. It terrified Aziraphale to think what might become of the strong, sardonic demon if he was left at their mercy for much longer.

Aziraphale did his best to shake off that thought for now. He ran his hands over the scrapbook, noting again the frayed corners and torn page edges where Valen’s nervous fidgeting was evident. There was even a small streak of blood on the spine. 

Cracking the book open, Aziraphale started with the section he had enjoyed putting together the most: food. Images of cakes, grilled steaks, fresh green salads, and anything else he could find in a magazine, covered the pages. But nothing was circled. He flipped through a few more sections, furrowing his brow. 

Then, finally, there it was: a wobbly red line, tracing...a window? On an image of a human family sitting around a table dressed for Thanksgiving dinner, Valen had circled the small window on the wall, outside of which a snowy scene was visible. 

“Hm.” Aziraphale kept turning the pages. There, an image of two humans jumping into a pool, but Valen had placed a red circle on the grass next to the pool. Where Aziraphale had pasted a picture of a human child flying a kite, Valen had circled a section of the sky. And instead of circling a person reading a book under a tree, Valen had circled a branch of the tree.

He hadn’t circled any images of objects - Aziraphale thought he might like a brightly colored vase, or an overstuffed pillow, or a cozy jacket. He hadn’t chosen any of the human activities depicted, either. There were only shaky red circles at random places throughout the pages.

“I don’t think he understood,” Aziraphale said, confused and disappointed.

Crowley pointed to a spot on the page where Valen had circled the lens flare of sunlight in an image of someone painting.

“Isn’t it obvious, angel? He wants to go outside.” 

***

The realization hit Aziraphale like a punch in the gut:  _ He wants to go outside _ .

The simplicity of Valen’s request was heart wrenching. How long had the poor being been deprived of sunlight, of fresh greenery, of blue skies and a breeze on his face?

Once he had recovered from the awful realization, and was done feeling foolish for not recognizing Valen’s desires without Crowley’s help, he was filled with excitement and purpose. 

“Well, then! We’ll take him on a picnic tomorrow!”

“Tomorrow?” Crowley sounded worried. “Don’t forget, we still have to -”

“I know, I know,” Aziraphale groused. “Gabriel’s awful thing. But we already have that ribbon, and we’ve gone up there before, we know what to expect. Can’t we just take him out in the morning, and then we’ll have all afternoon to get ready?”

Sometime soon, Aziraphale would have to face everything he’d been avoiding. But he couldn’t bear the thought of keeping Valen from his devastatingly simple wish for even one more day.

“Sure thing, angel.” Crowley’s expression softened. “Leith Hill?”

Aziraphale grinned. “Oh, perfect! We’ll take the car, and have a lovely walk around.” He knew that any opportunity to bring the Bentley out of London would have Crowley in an excellent mood, and the spring weather should be perfect for a day trip out to the countryside.

The next morning, Crowley was up bright and early, fiddling with the Bentley out back. It never needed any kind of servicing and Aziraphale was positive it could have made the drive very comfortably without any fuss, but Crowley always did enjoy playing with his favorite toy. 

Aziraphale was in the kitchen preparing a picnic basket while Valen sat at the table, watching him. He had told Valen that morning of their plans to head out into the country, and helped Valen choose some suitable clothing for the occasion, since the demon never changed out of his cozy gray t-shirt and sweatpants. 

Now, he was wearing some light khaki pants and a turquoise button-down that Aziraphale thought would look excellent with his silver-blonde hair and blue eyes. Valen also had on some sturdy walking boots, which he didn’t seem to like at all. He kept swinging and kicking his feet against the floor as if to relieve some kind of discomfort. Aziraphale figured he hadn’t worn shoes in nearly half a millennium, but he couldn’t exactly let Valen go hiking in the countryside without proper footwear.

“I’m just going to pack us some things for lunch,” Aziraphale was saying. “Do you like fruit?” He held up a box of raspberries. “Berries?”

Valen looked down at the table, mute. 

“I made some sandwiches,” Aziraphale continued. It felt odd to be talking half to himself and half to someone else, but he couldn’t think of any better way to try and draw Valen out of his silence and into conversation. With Ebarak gone, the house was oddly quiet, and Aziraphale was determined to help Valen speak beyond meek agreement or timid answers to simple questions. “I like sandwiches. They’re good picnic food, too. Easy to make, easy to carry.”

Crowley rescued him from having to find more inane things to say about sandwiches by swaggering in through the back door, a perfectly placed smudge of black grease over one eyebrow. 

“Hello, dear. Finished topping up all the tires?” 

“Yep.” Crowley twirled something shiny and metal in his fingers, some mechanic’s tool Aziraphale couldn’t begin to identify. “Tire pressure fine, fresh oil change, and the speedometer’s been properly scolded.”

“Excellent. Shall we, then?”

Valen blinked, dazed, as they led him out through the garden and into the little back driveway where Crowley kept his Bentley these days. Not surprising for a creature who hadn’t seen the sun since James Stuart was king.

Aziraphale conjured a pair of dark mirrored glasses with a bright blue plastic frame - different enough from Crowley’s trademark sunglasses - and handed them wordlessly to Valen, who put them on and looked around, his shoulders dropping some of their tension. 

“Cool shades,” Crowley said, speaking to Valen in the rearview mirror as he pulled out through the back alleyway and onto the London streets. The little demon kept the glasses on for the entire drive, curled up in the backseat, his nose pressed to the window.

Aziraphale wanted so badly to know what was going on inside Valen’s head - what he thought of the modern city, whether he had any questions, if there was anything he wanted to stop and see - but he kept reminding himself that today’s outing was for Valen’s benefit, and he seemed far more comfortable when no one was trying to make conversation with him.

So Aziraphale chatted instead with Crowley, pointed out sheep whenever they were visible on the rolling hills, and thought longingly about the sandwiches he’d packed and would be able to eat in a few short hours.

Parking was simple enough, considering how respectful other cars seemed to be toward the Bentley, and they started on their hike. Aziraphale had intended to spend about an hour reaching one of his favorite picnic spots, on a hill overlooking a valley bursting with wildflowers, but he could feel Valen’s exertion draining his own angelic energies more quickly than he had expected. 

They settled in a little clearing, blocked off from the trail by a ring of bushes and dappled with sunlight that filtered through the leaves of the tree overhead. 

“Alright. That’s enough of that, with the legs.” Crowley handed his sunglasses to Aziraphale, who tucked them into his pocket, and shimmied his way into his snake form, stretching out on a flat rock to warm himself in the sun.

Aziraphale shook out the picnic blanket and settled himself on the ground, close enough to Crowley’s basking spot that he could run a lazy, loving hand down his smooth scales.

Valen remained standing, staring up in awe at the trees. He reached a tentative hand out and stroked a branch covered in new green buds. 

He smiled. 

Aziraphale started munching on one of the sandwiches - slices of leftover quail, a thick smear of roasted garlic, and piles of watercress on slabs of cracked-seed bread. “Would you like some, dear?” He waved the sandwich under Crowley’s nose, but he only flicked his snake tongue out a few times and then went back to dozing in the sun. 

Meanwhile, Valen was wandering slowly through the clearing, touching various leaves, leaning in to smell the occasional flower. He still hadn’t sat down, despite the fact that Aziraphale could tell he was tired.

“Valen? Is there anything special you’d like to do?”

Valen stopped, looking a bit startled at Aziraphale’s voice. He turned to face the angel. Though he was still wearing his sunglasses, his posture and the expression on the rest of his face conveyed a sort of longing.

“Anything you like, dear.”

Valen parted his lips slightly as if to speak, but nothing happened. He still looked as though he wanted something without being able to articulate what it was. Aziraphale tried to follow his gaze. It wasn’t easy, with the sunglasses, but he seemed to be gazing at Crowley, currently a four foot long snake, lolling about on a sun-warmed rock.

“Crowley’s a snake today,” Aziraphale said. “Is that what you want? To take your other form?”

Now Valen was definitely looking at him, his mouth still open in a little  _ o _ . 

Aziraphale took the crystal pendant out of his pocket and held it in his fist. “Of course, Valen. Absolutely. I’m sorry I haven’t given you the option until now. Go ahead.”

In an instant - not even a second after Aziraphale first started channeling permissiveness and control through the crystal to Valen - the skinny, blonde demon disappeared. In his place was a ferret, grey and white, with bright little eyes and pink paws. Aziraphale glanced at the paws to see whether the damage on Valen’s hands transferred. He thought he could make out little scabs around the needle-like claws, but they were too small, and moving too quickly, to tell for sure.

For his part, Valen was darting around the clearing with an energy Aziraphale had never before seen in him. He bounded from the top of a rock down to the mossy floor, then scampered back up the other side of the stone. His little body wiggled and hopped in what Aziraphale could only described as sheer joy. He raced up a tree branch, sniffed at some flowers, took a few laps around the picnic blanket, and ran down into a hole before emerging with dust on his nose. The tiny sneeze he let out was perhaps the most adorable sound Aziraphale had ever heard, not counting the noises Crowley made in his sleep.

Though Valen gave the snake a wide berth, Crowley was watching the ferret’s escapades with one yellow eye. It was always harder to read his expressions in this form, but Aziraphale had enough practice to know that Crowley was as pleased as he was to see Valen finally enjoying himself, and proud of the angel for helping orchestrate it.

Wondering if Valen’s newfound glee might extend to his being more comfortable with the idea of eating, Aziraphale held out his sandwich in one hand and a fresh, ripe raspberry in the other. “Would you like a snack?”

Valen froze, rising up on his haunches, and stared intently at Aziraphale. The angel stayed perfectly still, as if trying to charm a wild animal into eating from his hand.

Then Valen crept closer, finally stepping onto the tartan picnic blanket, close enough that Aziraphale could now see a tiny bald patch between the ferret’s little shoulderblades, just like the bare spot on Ebarak’s hawk form. 

Valen stretched out his neck and brought his tiny pink nose close to the berry. He gave it a few hesitant sniffs, his nose twitching, then turned to the sandwich and did the same thing. 

Aziraphale held his breath. 

The ferret froze for a moment, considering, his whiskers quivering, his sharp teeth only milimetres from the sandwich. Then he turned and darted under a bush, disappearing in a blur of gray fur. 

“Oh.” Aziraphale couldn’t hide his disappointment as he watched the spot where Valen was hiding. Crowley lifted his head and nuzzled into Aziraphale and the angel welcomed the distraction. “I suppose I’ll just have to finish these sandwiches all by myself,” he said, humor creeping back into his voice. 

Crowley rolled his eyes - it would not exactly be a hardship for Aziraphale to eat three quail sandwiches. 

By the time the spring-warm sun made it to the noonday peak, Aziraphale had finished two of the three sandwiches, Valen had finally tired himself out and was rolling around languidly in a patch of clover, and Crowley had given up on any semblance of realism, manifested a pair of eyelids, and fallen into a deep nap. 

Despite the fact that the sun was high, a chill started to take up in the air, a reminder that it was definitely still spring, not summer. The wind picked up, too, sending crumbs and napkins flying across the blanket. At the flapping of the picnic basket lid, Crowley opened one eye and started to shake himself moodily awake. 

“Bessssst get back ssssooon,” he grumbled.

On any other day, Aziraphale would have been nothing but charmed at the way Crowley’s voice took on a more serpentine affect when he was in snake form. But today, they would be returning to grotesque research on occult enslavement, and the need to prepare for Gabriel’s awful event tonight. 

So instead of trying to provoke an expansive conversation with Crowley, he simply glanced up at the rapidly cooling sky and said “Yes. Best.”

Aziraphale moved to start cleaning up the picnic, then noticed that Crowley hadn’t made any move from his rock, and started to tease the demon. “Aren’t you going to change back and give me a hand?” He tugged playfully at Crowley’s tail. “Not to mention you’ll need legs for the walk down.”

Crowley turned and slithered off the rock, over the tartan blanket, and into the warm folds of Aziraphale’s jacket. “But it’sssss cold, angel.” He poked his head out and flicked his tongue at Aziraphale. 

“Oh you lazy thing!” Aziraphale laughed, a bit surprised by Crowley’s behavior. It wasn’t exactly like him, but Aziraphale figured maybe he was mourning Ebarak’s departure in his own way. 

Aziraphale turned to Valen, who was standing up, intently watching his and Crowley’s interaction. “How about you, Valen?” He rested his fingers against the crystal and did his best to make sure Valen would be able to shift back, but certainly didn’t have to. 

The ferret stared at Aziraphale for a moment, then seemed to be considering something, scratching at his ear with a fervent sort of energy. He put his paw down, took a breath as if to prepare himself for something, then launched himself toward Aziraphale, racing over the blanket and up his leg before huddling up in his jacket on the opposite side as Crowley.

With the little creature so close up against him, Aziraphale could feel his rapid breathing, the fluttering of his heart. 

The picnic basket and blanket found themselves back in the boot of the Bentley, leaving Aziraphale free to get both demons settled inside his jacket. Aziraphale couldn’t stop smiling as he made his way back down the trail, one hand tucked up under Crowley’s heavy, coiled form and the other hand cradling the warm bundle of nerves and fur that was Valen. 

Of course, Crowley needed his body back to drive them home. He unfolded his four limbs and stretched for a moment, then reached into Azirpahale’s front pocket for his glasses, leaning in for a quick kiss on the angel’s cheek as he did so.

Aziraphale tapped the stone again, but Valen didn’t seem at all interested in shifting. He spent the drive back to London on Aziraphale’s lap. Initially, he stood up on his hind legs to watch out the window, and Crowley had to shoo him off the dashboard once or twice. But as the drive wore on, he got tired of maintaining his perch, and ended up draped across Aziraphale’s lap. He certainly wasn’t curled up contentedly, like he had before. One of his bright little eyes looked watchfully up at Aziraphale.

The etiquette of how to handle a ferret when that ferret is, in fact, an incredibly traumatized demon who’s terrified of you had never come up in any of Azirpahale’s books. He did his best, and kept his hands very still, resting in his lap, not touching Valen. It was hard to remember not to gesticulate while talking to Crowley, but he managed.

Then Crowley had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting a sheep that had wandered into the road. Startled by the abrupt stop, Aziraphale instinctively grabbed Valen to keep him from flying into the glovebox.

“Sorry, sorry,” Crowley muttered, waving his hand and encouraging the sheep to find its way elsewhere, quickly. 

But Aziraphale hardly heard him. He felt all of Valen’s muscles, taut and tense where Aziraphale had grabbed him; his little rodent heart pounding.

Oh no. Aziraphale must have terrified the poor creature, snatching him like that, and with him so small like this. 

He had to let go of Valen immediately, but he worried about making things worse if he yanked his hands away with the same violence of motion. 

Aziraphale carefully loosened his grip and gave Valen two awkward, delicate pats before pulling his hands away and resting them back on his thighs. 

“I am sorry about that. Are you alright?” Aziraphale paused, not sure whether he ought to expect a response. It seemed rude to ask a question without waiting for an answer, but then again, Valen hadn’t spoken a word since shifting, and he didn’t talk much in the first place.

Valen was still for a moment. Then he rolled over on his side and nudged at one of Aziraphale’s hands with his head. 

Aziraphale smiled and gave the ferret a few scritches behind the ears, which Valen seemed to like. Then he popped back up and resumed watching out the window, though he stayed a bit closer to Aziraphale as he did.

***

When they got home, Aziraphale again touched the crystal, but Valen remained in his ferret form. It was a good sign, Aziraphale figured, that he seemed to understand that he had a choice in the matter, and was apparently able to choose what he wanted.

Why he wanted to be a ferret, Aziraphale didn’t know. Valen had been so grateful to put his wings away, and after so much time in captivity, Aziraphale thought he might chafe at remaining in the small body. But he didn’t have to understand. He was just glad to have some small way to help Valen find some happiness again.

After looking back and getting a permissive nod from Aziraphale, Valen scrambled up the stairs and disappeared into his bedroom, no doubt to burrow and play in his now-mountainous nests of pillows and blankets.

“Ah, angel.” Crowley tossed his sunglasses and the Bentley keys on the counter and pointed to Aziraphale’s phone, where a red light was flashing. “You’ve got a message.”

There was only one person it could be from. Sure enough, when Aziraphale pressed the button, he heard Nephriel’s voice, coming in clear from her Heavenly device.

“ _ Hi, Aziraphale, I’m just calling you back like you asked. Honestly, he’s been so good since we got home, I’m not even sure what else you need to tell me! But I guess we’ll see each other at the gathering tonight, so we can talk then. See you soon! _ ”

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other. The clock on the wall read 3:19 - giving them less than two hours to get ready to head back up to Heaven under the guises of a slaver and his unfortunate victim. 

“Best get on with it, then.” Crowley had a look of determination that filled Aziraphale with confidence and a little bit of fear.

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied. “Best.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale, along with the other "new recruit" that Nephriel has brought in, gets invited to a little question and answer session with the Archangels.

It was simple enough to get Crowley ready to head up to Heaven under the guise of Aziraphale’s property. Together, they braided the sigil-stitched ribbon into his hair, Aziraphale grateful for the opportunity to be close to his beloved, to thread his fingers gently through the demon’s curls and plant tender kisses on his neck.

Soon, they would be separated by the wide gulf between the roles they were playing. But for now, they could hold each other, murmur gentle reassurances, rest in one another’s presence.

Crowley wore a plain uniform of a loose black t-shirt and tailored black slacks. He would fit right in with Michael’s fully dressed demons, Aziraphale thought. Though it seemed most angels kept theirs less clothed, it seemed best to prevent calling attention to Crowley’s lack of an embedded shard.

The last step was to let Valen know that they would be gone for the evening. Aziraphale climbed the stairs with a heavy heart, wishing he could just leave the skittish demon to relax, but knowing he couldn’t leave him alone without checking in first. 

“Valen?” Aziraphale kept his voice cheerful and gentle as he pushed past the blankets in the doorway. “May I speak with you?”

A pointed, alert, and rather adorable ferret face poked up from behind one of the blanket nests.

“Ah, there you are. Would you, er, would you mind changing back for a moment? Just so we can talk.”

Aziraphale touched the pendant, still in his pocket, though he knew he would need to wear the hateful thing around his neck for the evening’s event.

Valen’s humanoid form appeared, then, a tangle of limbs in a startled heap on the floor. The blue plastic sunglasses Aziraphale had given him earlier that day hung crookedly from one ear. He looked up at Aziraphale, fear plain on his face.

“Oh, thank you. I just needed to tell you that, ah, Crowley and I will be out of the house for a while this evening. Will you be alright on your own?”

Valen nodded. 

“Excellent. Please do feel free to help yourself to anything in the flat, only be careful with my books, alright?” Aziraphale doubted that Valen would leave his cozy little den of a bedroom, but he had to extend the permission anyway. Someday, he told himself, Valen would feel safe enough to behave more like a guest than a prisoner. He just had to keep working.

“We do hate to leave you alone, but, er, you would not enjoy this errand, I can assure you.” Aziraphale twisted his hands nervously, wondering just how much to reveal. “We can go out again tomorrow, perhaps to the park.”

Valen said nothing, his pale blue eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s fidgeting hands. 

“When I get back, we can fix up your bandages again, okay? Would you like that?”

Valen nodded again, and this time it looked much more sincere rather than the survival reflex that led him to agree with anything the angel said.

Aziraphale smiled. “Alright, then. Thank you for talking with me. Would you like to shift back?”

Valen’s face lit up with hope, his gaze moving to Aziraphale’s pocket. “Yes, please,” he breathed, his voice tentative, as if he didn’t dare expect to be granted such freedom twice in one day.

Aziraphale did what he needed to do, and then Valen was a ferret again, bright-eyed and lithe. He burrowed under a mound of pillows, bounded back up, and settled into a nest-like divot at the top, curled up on himself, his gray tail tucked under his tiny pink nose.

***

The event was apparently being held in Michael’s quarters. When they arrived, Aziraphale and Crowley were shown into a room that was nearly identical to Nephriel’s, though much larger. 

“Ah, Aziraphale!” Gabriel greeted him with obnoxious warmth, clapping him on the shoulders. 

“Hello, Gabriel.” 

“Ah, you brought this one again.” The Archangel looked Crowley up and down appraisingly. “He’s so tame.”

“Mm. Yes.” Aziraphale’s fist tightened involuntarily around the end of the ribbon in his hand. “Is Nephriel here yet?”

“Nope.” Gabriel didn’t seem concerned about the other angel’s absence. “You’re the first one here. It’s just me and Michael.”

And Michael’s three demons, who were standing like statues, still and silent, against the wall. Michael was seated at the table, bent over her glass tablet.

It figured, Aziraphale thought glumly. He had been so worried about being late that he had inadvertently condemned himself and Crowley to unnecessary time in the company of these miserable excuses for angels. 

Just then, the door opened, and Aziraphale turned to see who had entered, hoping it was Nephriel. He was nearly beside himself with worry about Ebarak. But it was Sandalphon, wearing a garish gold suit, grinning at Gabriel.

Aziraphale paid little attention to the arrival of the third Archangel, however. His attention was entirely captured by the creature accompanying Sandalphon. Slinking around at the Archangel’s feet, on the end of a delicate golden chain leash, was a cheetah. Aziraphale’s breath caught at the beauty of the animal, all sleek muscle and fluid movements.

Then he saw the telltale patch of hairless skin between its collarbones, and Aziraphale understood. The cheetah wasn’t an animal; it was a demon, apparently trapped in their animal form. He wanted to be sick. 

But there was no time to be horrified. Sandalphon was approaching him, his too-wide grin full of gold teeth - which Aziraphale now saw were embedded with tiny bits of Yatsarite. “Aziraphale!”

“Sandalphon,” Aziraphale said, forcing himself to smile in greeting. “Good to see you.”

“You were at the auction, but we didn’t get a chance to talk. You bought that difficult little weasel. How’s it doing?”

“Quite well.” Aziraphale tried to sound more confident than defensive, but he wasn’t sure whether it had worked.

“I bet! Gabriel tells me you’ve joined the ranks of demon keepers and taken to it like a fish to water.”

_ More like a slug to salt, _ Aziraphale thought. “Yes.” He wracked his brain for something else to say to Sandalphon, but he was too distracted by the cheetah heeling beside the Archangel. It seemed the leash was more for show than anything, and Aziraphale wondered just how broken the demon trapped inside had to be.

“Ah, I see you noticing her.” Sandalphon reached down to stroke the cheetah’s fur. “She is gorgeous, isn’t she?”

“Yes.” At least that wasn’t a lie. 

“Michael and Gabriel prefer to keep theirs looking like us, but there’s something about their animal shapes that’s just so perfect.” Sandalphon rubbed the cheetah’s head rather roughly. “Makes them easier to manage, and reminds them of their place.” 

“Of course,” was all Aziraphale could think to say.

“See this one?” Sandalphon reached into his jacket pocket and produced a miniature cage, rounded on top like an old fashioned bird cage, but only about three inches tall. Inside was a strikingly green praying mantis, poised as if to attack. “He’s a real nasty one. I haven’t been able to do a thing with him, but there’s nothing a few hundred years in a cage can’t cure. Isn’t that right, you little insect?”

Sandalphon held the cage up near his face, taunting the demon inside. He flicked at the cage, making Aziraphale flinch, but the mantis just struck out with its whip-like arms, vicious and violent and entirely ineffective against the golden bars.

_ “And you shall have dominion over all the creatures,”  _ Sandalphon quoted as he tucked the cage back into his pocket. “There’s certainly a reason demons are all animals, don’t you think?” He looked Crowley over, his gaze far more predatory than Gabriel’s had been. “Do you know what he is yet?”

“No,” Aziraphale lied. There was no way he was revealing anything about Crowley, his precious serpent, to Sandalphon.

“Well you should make him switch. Just to see.”

The thought of  _ forcing _ Crowley to take his snake form, of exercising such control over the most intimate parts of another being’s powers and self, disgusted Aziraphale. He resorted to a phrase the humans often used to politely indicate complete disinterest. “I’ll take it under consideration,” he said.

Blessedly, the conversation with Sandalphon came to an abrupt end as the door opened, and in walked the angel Aziraphale most wanted to speak with, though it wasn’t much of a competition. There was Nephriel, with Ebarak behind her, and another angel Aziraphale didn’t recognize but who he assumed must have been Ramael. She had long, straight black hair, a round pale face, and was glancing around the room as if she wasn’t entirely sure she belonged here.

“Ah! Nephriel!” Aziraphale hurried over, trying not to pull on Crowley’s ribbon as he darted across the room. 

“Oh, hi, Aziraphale!” Nephriel gestured at her companion. “This is Ramael, my friend who I was telling you about.”

“Yes, yes, good to meet you.” Aziraphale held his hand out to shake Ramael’s, but his eyes were glued to Ebarak. The demon wore nothing but his metal collar, his head bowed low enough that Aziraphale couldn’t see his eyes. His jaw and shoulder were dark with bruises that seemed to be the results of his self abuse before being returned, and it didn’t seem that Nephriel had done much more damage, if any. Aziraphale breathed an inward sigh of relief.

“How has he been doing?” He couldn’t hide his eagerness to hear about Ebarak, and hoped it came off as less of a concerned friend and more of an interested co-conspirator.

“He’s been so good! I can’t thank you enough, Aziraphale, really.”

Ebarak stood, cowed and motionless, as if he hadn’t recognized Aziraphale’s voice at all. As if he wasn’t registering any of the conversation that swirled around him. Aziraphale wanted terribly to catch his eye, just for a moment, to send a friendly wink, to see some sparkle of personality in Ebarak, but the demon never looked up, never gave him a chance.

“I’m so glad. Have you had any more problems, with - you know -” Aziraphale glanced over at Gabriel and Michael, then surreptitiously motioned toward his own back, miming an attempt to touch where a crystal would have been.

“No, no, thank Her,” Nephriel said, sounding relieved. 

“Excellent. I did want to tell you, if you see any sign of that behavior coming back, call me right away.”

“I will. But he’s really been so well behaved. I haven’t had to correct him hardly at all.”

“I do recommend a gentle hand, at least for an early infraction,” Aziraphale said. It wasn’t easy to toe this line, advocating a more human approach while continuing to speak about the demons as nothing more than subjects of a brutal experiment. “It is, I suppose, a paradox of purification that rougher treatment often begets worse, not better, behavior.”

“Hm.” Nephriel seemed unconvinced, but interested. “That’s not what the Archangels say.”

“Right, right, of course,” Aziraphale chattered, buying himself some time to come up with a new line of argument. He had rehearsed the line about the ‘paradox of purification,’ but now he was floundering. “Still, one must remember not to push them past their limits. Our station requires as much grace as it does discipline.”

“Ah.” Nephriel considered his words. “I guess they are only demons, after all.”

“Right.” Aziraphale hated himself for the words spilling from his lips, hated that Crowley was hearing him talk like this, hated his betrayal of Ebarak back into the hands of these cruel angels. And he especially hated that he was saying all this in front of Ramael, who might still be turned away from this awful way of thinking. All he wanted was to protect Ebarak, but was it fair to do so by bolstering these ideas in the minds of other angels?

His head hurt. All he wanted was to curl up at home by the fire and read with Crowley. But now Michael was saying something, trying to gather everyone into a side room. Aziraphale followed the little crowd, but Michael stopped him at the doorway. 

“Angels only,” she said, her voice cool and prim as always. “Sandalphon will watch the demons while we talk.”

Aziraphale looked behind him, where Sandalphon was lounging in one of the hard wooden chairs, the cheetah’s leash curled lazily around one hand. Ebarak and Michael’s three angels were standing beside him. 

“Oh, er…” Aziraphale hesitated, clinging to the ribbon in his hand like a lifeline. He had no intention of abandoning Crowley to the Archangel. But did he have a choice? There was Michael, brooking no argument. He wished he could confer with Crowley. Why hadn’t they made a plan for this? “I would prefer not to be separated.”

“Don’t worry,” Gabriel boomed in his always-too-loud manner. “Sandalphon has plenty of experience handling demons.” He held his hand out and, helplessly, Aziraphale handed the Archangel the ribbon.

“Be good,” he said as Gabriel led a silent, compliant Crowley over to stand beside Sandalphon. He hoped Crowley could hear everything he meant but couldn’t say. 

_ I love you. I’m so sorry. I’ll get us out of this. I love you. _

***

The sitting room Michael led them into was surprisingly comfortable. She and Gabriel sat on two low couches covered in a plain brown fabric, and the three lesser angels sat on a matching couch facing them. On a table between the couches, two candles burned, giving the whole room a soft rose-gold glow. They smelled like ambrosia. 

It all had an air of the old Heaven, before the First War, when being an angel felt good and right and easy. Aziraphale remembered how he had looked up to the Archangels, how he wanted to be righteous and beloved by them.

_ How had it all gone so wrong? _

Gabriel was talking, and Aziraphale knew he ought to be paying attention, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the closed door, behind which he had left Crowley. 

_ Focus, _ he told himself.  _ We came up here for a reason. Don’t let it all be in vain.  _

Crowley would be alright, he assured himself. They had, in a way, planned for this. He wasn’t as helpless as he was playing at. If he was in danger, he could rip out the ribbon and miracle himself back down to earth. 

Aziraphale tried to ignore the voice inside him that said Crowley would not actually do that - that the demon would suffer all manner of indignity and worse instead of blowing their cover and putting all the other captive demons at risk.

He wrenched his eyes away from the door and settled them on Michael, who had begun to speak.

“We were so glad to hear from Nephriel that Ramael was interested in the work we are doing,” she said. “Drawing other willing angels into this holy project is critical if we are to continue this work, and it seems Nephriel has a gift for such conversations.”

Nephriel looked ready to burst with pride, beaming as the Archangel praised her. Aziraphale wanted to roll his eyes, but instead schooled his face into a passive smile as he listened to Michael.

“Gabriel and I wanted to arrange this opportunity to speak with you, Ramael, to answer any questions you may have, and to discuss your readiness to become a demon keeper with your own charge.”

Ramael squirmed a bit at being directly addressed, saying nothing.

“And you, Aziraphale.” Michael turned to him and he straightened his posture, hands flat on his legs, willing them not to jiggle with nervous energy. “I understand that you already maintain two demons of your own, but that you came at this undertaking rather... _ obliquely _ .”

With that, she glanced sidelong at Gabriel, a judgment in her eyes that Aziraphale didn’t have time to decipher before it melted away. 

“As such, we wanted to include you in this conversation as well, to ensure that your practices and ideas regarding demons are well aligned with the blessed work we have all committed to.”

Gabriel cut in then, overriding the growing condescension in Michael’s tone with a chipper hand-clap and a friendly grin. “We’re just here to have a conversation, answer any questions you have, get to know each other a bit better!”

Aziraphale breathed a private sigh of relief. So this was the kind of thing he and Crowley had expected it to be: a conversation with the Archangels about the specifics of what they were doing. Together, they had worked out a list of questions that Aziraphale had done his best to memorize, and would look for opportunities to ask. 

Of course, he couldn’t be too obvious. Playing the part of a competent demon keeper invested in the ideology of demon subjugation meant that he couldn’t exactly leap into an interrogation of the Archangels. So he waited patiently for Ramael to speak first, despite the fact that an awkward silence was beginning to take hold.

“You were asking me some stuff,” Nephriel prompted her friend. “Remember? About the humans?”

“Oh. Yeah,” Ramael said, shifting in her seat. “I was wondering, what if the humans find out? Don’t we always tell them that slavery is, you know. A bad thing?”

Aziraphale was pleasantly surprised to hear such a question out of the new recruit. Perhaps Ramael was not yet a lost cause, as Nephriel and so many others seemed to be.

“It is wrong for humans to enslave each other,” Michael explained, in a practiced way that indicated she had answered such questions numerous times before. “They are of the same substance, you see. It would be equally abhorrent for angels to attempt to enslave one another.”

“Remember,” Gabriel said, “that our war is against  _ evil _ , not against  _ demons _ . Our role as holy warriors is to purge the evil from within them, redeeming them by cleansing them of their demonic nature.”

“In this way, we rescue the being by obliterating the evil that has taken root within them,” Michael finished. 

“Nephriel says they don’t like it,” Ramael said, apparently growing bolder as the conversation progressed. “If we’re helping them get rid of something that’s bad for them, why do they fight back?”

Michael smiled indulgently, as one would toward a foolish child. “Evil will always resist the works of good,” she said, as if it were patently obvious. “When a demon struggles against the holy work of purification, that is proof of its evil nature. Once the darkness is gone from within them, they become receptive to the goodness we as angels provide.”

“It’s not easy,” Gabriel cautioned. “Trying to help someone who thinks you’re actually hurting them. It’s thankless, and it can get you down. But just remember that the harder a demon fights, the more afflicted it is with evil, and the more it needs our care and assistance.”

“A human will cry when you clean out an infected wound,” Michael intoned. “But in the end, to be emptied of rot and filth is far better, even if they must first be held down by the surgeon.”

Aziraphale was surprised to hear Michael mention anything about human corporations and medicine. He had certainly never seen her on an earthly battlefield. Someone must have given her the metaphor.

Ramael was humming and nodding, not necessarily in agreement, but thoughtfully, as she took in Michael’s somewhat dense statements.

Aziraphale figured he might as well jump in. He knew he would never be able to get through the entire list of questions that he and Crowley wanted answered. It would probably be too suspicious to start asking about the properties of the crystal and sigil they used to bind the demons’ powers, but since Ramael was already asking about the ideas and ethics behind the whole endeavor, he could ask about that. Crowley wanted to get a sense for just how many angels were on board with this, and particularly why only three of the four Archangels appeared to be involved.

“What about the other angels?”

Both Michael and Gabriel’s heads instantly turned to face Aziraphale. 

“I mean - you’ve explained to me the need for discretion in these matters, and I wonder, if -  _ since _ \- it is such an obvious truth of Her will, why there is such a contingent of dissent?”

Aziraphale could feel the blasphemy curdling on his tongue. He wanted to retch. But he would keep it together. For Crowley. For Valen. 

He inclined his head gently, feigning a respectful eagerness for the Archangels’ reply.

Michael gave a long-suffering sigh and recrossed her slim legs on the sofa. “One would think,” she said, “that such a blessed chance to be bearers of Her grace would not be one an angel shirks from.”

Aziraphale furrowed his brows, leaning in, genuinely unable to follow the high-handed language.

“Some just don’t get it,” Gabriel interrupted with an exaggerated shrug. “But I keep telling Michael, be patient. We’re always talking to more angels. And it’s not as if anyone’s  _ leaving _ . It’s all about Her timing, right?”

Gabriel’s teeth were almost too white in his smile as he spoke, something shared between him and Michael in a fleeting look. 

“Indeed,” Michael said. “Patience is, after all, a virtue.”

Ramael spoke up again, then. “What about Uriel? Are you three the only Archangels involved?”

It was a question Aziraphale had been keeping in his back pocket - where  _ was _ Uriel, in all this? - but he had refrained from asking it, lest it appear that he were seeking out potential allies. 

At the mention of the other Archangel’s name, a chill ran through the room. Gabriel made a very undignified sound of agitation, and Michael pressed her lips together tightly.

Aziraphale could feel Ramael squirming with nerves beside him, having realized too late that her question touched a nerve.

“Uriel…” Michael pinched the bridge of her nose, her entire posture and tone evincing disdain. “Uriel is confused. They don’t ‘approve’ - as if Her will is subject to the approval of individual creatures - of what we’re doing here.”

“Best stay away from Uriel,” Gabriel said. “You don’t want to let them  _ confuse _ you, too.” The threat implicit in his tone was all too clear.

Ramael nodded enthusiastically.

Aziraphale decided to rejoin the conversation, doing his best to match Michael’s patter. “If we were to have an encounter with someone so confused, or perhaps simply an uninformed angel, what sort of, er, spiritual armor might we be equipped with? I confess that, having acquired my own demon without being under the tutelage of yourselves, there are some gaps in my knowledge.”

Michael smiled at him, then, a genuinely happy expression. “Of course, of course. That is what this little gathering is for, after all.”

“What helped me understand,” Nephriel said, leaning around her friend Ramael, ostensibly to address Aziraphale while clearly aware of her audience of Archangels, “was the crystal. The way it was gifted to the angels at the end of the First War.”

“Yes, exactly,” Gabriel continued. “You see, Aziraphale, when the First War was drawing to an end, it was becoming clear that we were not going to eliminate the rebel faction, but they were instead going to be banished, as demons, to the dominion of Hell.”

“Leaving open the possibility of redemption,” Nephriel cut in. “Our place isn’t to kill the demons, but the evil that’s taken hold inside them.”

“That’s right,” Michael said, and Nephriel nearly glowed with pride at the Archangel’s praise. “A small squadron of us came across a piece of the Creation Stone - gifted to us by the Creator, a clear sign from Her about her intentions for the demons.”

“Obviously, Uriel wasn’t with us,” Gabriel said, waving his hand dismissively. “But those of us who saw what She was showing us became the keepers of the crystal, and we began working to reclaim the demons for Her.”

Aziraphale nodded along, filing this all away to discuss with Crowley later. Even now, more pieces were falling into place. These angels had been doing this since the beginning, which explained just how far gone Michael and Gabriel’s demons seemed to be.

And it appeared that they had convinced themselves that their discovery of the large shard was somehow proof of God’s support for this project. Aziraphale thought about all the strange things he had stumbled across in his long existence, and how foolish it would have been to assume that any one of them was a sign from the ineffable Lord. 

“Keepers of the crystal?” Ramael asked. “Is that like demon keepers?”

“Ah, no, not exactly.” Gabriel pulled an ornate golden key from inside his crisply pressed shirt. Aziraphale recognized it as the one he had used to open the box that held the piece of crystal he had seen at the auction and “sharding” ceremony.

Michael produced an identical one. “Myself, Gabriel, and Sandalphon all share the great and holy responsibility. We protect and maintain the gift from Her that provides both the mission and the means.”

Aziraphale noticed, then, that both Michael and Gabriel’s gaze had drifted. They were looking past him, somewhere behind him and just over his shoulder. He turned, twisting on the low couch, and saw the gold and silver box, covered in elegant filigree, sitting on a stand in the corner of Michael’s room.

A jolt ran through him, then. He knew where the crystal was kept, and he knew that the three Archangels kept the keys on their persons.

This felt significant. He wanted terribly to talk it over with Crowley, to puzzle out the useful meaning of this new information. The rush of discovery was replaced by the anxious buzz of dread that had taken up in his heart as soon as the door closed and he was separated from his beloved demon. 

But he was here, and he would have to make the most of it. Since they were discussing the crystal, he might as well take the opportunity to ask about the tattooed symbol. “Forgive my ignorance, but I have been wondering - the sigil? What is its origin, and how does it interact with the crystal?”

At Aziraphale’s question, Gabriel pulled his eyes away from the crystal’s box and leaned back into the sofa. “Brilliant, isn’t it? Sandalphon designed it.”

“The crystal connects each demon to the angel who holds its shard,” Michael explained. “But they must be made entirely dependent on our grace. Otherwise, they find the pull of evil too tempting to resist, and are unable to act in line with their own redemption.”

“All demonic powers are circumscribed by the sigil,” Gabriel said. “Everything their corporation needs, the ability to use their wings or transform into their beastly shapes - gone.”

“So,” Aziraphale said, feigning as if this question was only just forming in his mind, “a demon with a sigil but without a shard, would…?”

“Die,” Michael said simply. “Not discorporate - it would be gone from this world and all others, without their own essence or our grace to sustain them. Which would be a shame, the loss of a creature before it had the chance to be freed from evil’s snares.”

“I see, I see. And a demon with a shard, but without a sigil?”

“Are you thinking of getting yours a shard?” Gabriel asked, his violet eyes brightening. “I’ve been saying, it really is about time.”

Aziraphale clenched his fist around his thumb, forcing himself to stay composed. Gabriel had mistaken the source of his curiosity, but it was better than being caught out as an impostor. “Perhaps, though I’d like to explore other possibilities first. You know me, always the researcher!”

Michael gave Aziraphale a tight-lipped scowl. “It is quite inappropriate for a demon to be kept without a shard. How else is he supposed to receive your cleansing grace?”

“I understand,” Aziraphale said, doing his best to sound suitably chastened. “But I don’t yet fully grasp the way the shard and the sigil interact.”

This clearly annoyed Michael. “Why must you  _ understand _ in order to do Her will? Is it not enough to know what She desires?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to sputter a defense, but Gabriel waved his hand and interrupted. “It’s only natural for angels to be curious about this,” he said. “Isn’t this why we called them here? Aziraphale, a shard without a sigil would be rather useless; as the demon would still have full control over its powers and would be able to resist, refuse, or even return to Hell.”

Gabriel clapped his hands on his knees, satisfied with his answer and clearly looking to shift the conversation away from the apparently problematic questions his own guest had arrived with. “Ramael!” He turned with a blinding smile to the other angel. “You’ve been awfully quiet - is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

Aziraphale relaxed a bit, giving himself permission to sit back and listen. He was mentally exhausted by playing these games with the Archangels, and he hoped the information he had gathered was enough to justify this miserable trip upstairs at least. He hadn’t gotten even half the questions on their list answered - he still didn’t know what baptism was, or the specifics of how certain demons came to be under the heels of these rogue angels - but right now his focus was on getting through, getting Crowley, and getting home.

Ramael and Nephriel chattered on for a bit longer, asking questions that seemed more designed to impress the Archangels than to actually learn anything. There was no clock in here, but he could feel himself counting down the seconds until he could see Crowley again.

Finally, the meeting drew to a close. Everyone rose from the couches and filed back into the main room, where Sandalphon was just where they had left him. His cheetah sat at his feet like a silent sphinx, back straight, haunches rounded, eyes forward. Crowley stood at the Archangel’s side, his head bowed. The ribbon was still in Sandalphon’s fist.

***

As soon as they got back to the bookshop, Crowley started undoing his braid, nearly clawing at his own hair until the ribbon fell to a heap on the floor. He snapped his fingers and his curls disappeared, his hair now cropped short again. Another snap and his plain clothing was replaced by his standard outfit - complete with his sunglasses, which he never wore inside the flat.

“Are you alright? Crowley, love, what did they do to you?”

“I’m fine,” Crowley mumbled, making a beeline for the library and the big research desk. “Go check on Valen.”

Aziraphale snatched the ribbon from the floor and stuffed it into his pocket before rushing toward Crowley. He took the demon by his shoulders and held him close. “Crowley. Please, tell me. What happened?”

Crowley sighed, dipping his head down to look at the angel over the rims of his sunglasses. “Nothing happened, angel. I swear. He didn’t touch me. I’m fine. It’s just....” Crowley sighed and turned toward the desk, flipping a few sheets of paper over. “We’ve got to figure this out.”

Aziraphale nodded. “We will. I have so much to tell you.”

Crowley gave Aziraphale a watery smile before shrugging out of his grasp. “Can’t wait to hear it. But right now, best go see about our little ferret, yeah? He’s been left alone a while.”

Aziraphale wanted nothing less than to leave Crowley, but he sensed something in the demon that needed to be alone after such a suffocating evening. He gave Crowley a quick kiss and headed upstairs, sparing one last look into the library. There Crowley sat, his slender frame dwarfed by the massive desk and the piles of books and scrolls, his fingers threaded through his newly shortened hair as he rested his head in his hands.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After learning that Uriel doesn't support the actions of the other Archangels, Aziraphale reaches out for help. But when it comes to Heaven, nothing is simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for how late this chapter is; things in my personal life continue to explode.
> 
> As always, huge thanks to @dreamsofspike for beta-ing this chapter, and everyone on the Good Omens Kink Meme & server for their continued support, riffing, and ferret pictures #valenisbabey

It was simple enough to check on Valen, who had fallen asleep on his back in the late evening sun, his little ferret belly moving gently with his breaths. One paw twitched furiously, and Aziraphale wondered what he was dreaming about.

Part of him wanted to wake the demon, gather him up in a comforting embrace, and quiet whatever nightmares were running through his head. But Aziraphale didn’t think that would end well - best not to grab and startle him, especially when he was so small like this. He’d wait until Valen woke up and then suggest another round of tending to his hands.

“Do you want to talk now, dearest?” Aziraphale stepped up slowly behind Crowley, rubbing the demon’s slender shoulders in just the way he liked.

Crowley leaned back from the desk, craning his neck to look up at him. “Tomorrow, yeah? Need some sleep.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale bent down to kiss the top of Crowley’s head before leading him up from his research and into their bedroom.

Looking around the room as he changed into his pajamas, Aziraphale released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Everything here was the same as it had always been - from within this private sanctuary, it was as if he had never been approached by Gabriel, never brought home a shattered demon, never asked his own beloved to reduce himself to something less than nothing for the sake of a great and terrible project that offered no promise of success. 

“I love you, Crowley,” he said, climbing in under the bedsheets and pulling Crowley in close. He couldn’t comfort Valen like this, but he could protect Crowley, could hold him tight and do his best to stand between his husband and whatever cruelties made the mistake of turning their eyes toward Aziraphale’s beloved. “No matter what. Always.”

“I know,” Crowley mumbled, nuzzling into Aziraphale’s chest and curling into his warmth. “Love you too, angel.”

***

The next three days passed in relative peace, for which Aziraphale was deeply grateful. Valen, though he still preferred to scurry and hide in his ferret form, often joined the two in the library, curling up in odd little spots and occasionally nosing around the bookshop.

Aziraphale made it a point to offer him a shift frequently, and sometimes he took him up on the offer, unfolding into the pale-skinned, slight-figured demon who sat across from Crowley at the chessboard, or stood looking at the bookshelves, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes wide and searching. Almost always, he ended up in front of the Jacobean section, and once Aziraphale thought he saw the demon reach tentatively for a bound folio of Shakespeare’s plays. 

He still refused food, and made himself scarce whenever Aziraphale was preparing food. And he still gnawed on his fingers and bandages, though Aziraphale was seeing some progress during their nightly healing sessions. Valen’s skittishness around the bathtub was receding, and though his crying spells continued, he seemed to be less overwhelmed by the whole affair.

For his part, Crowley had thrown himself headfirst into their shared research, and soon the library found itself shifting and stretching to accommodate more surfaces. A corkboard had manifested itself along a new wall, which Crowley covered in pinned notes and threads connecting bits of information.

Aziraphale had told him all about the meeting; about the crystal locked in the filigree case in Michael’s Heavenly quarters; about the symbiosis between the sigil tattoos and the embedded shards; about the Creation Stone’s discovery. Crowley had seemed most interested, however, in what  _ wasn’t _ said, and often wanted Aziraphale to recount the specific words and inflections the Archangels had used when it seemed they were talking around something rather than addressing it directly.

“What did they tell you, about Uriel?” Crowley was standing at his corkboard, one hand rubbing at his chin. “What did they say, exactly?”

Aziraphale looked up from his book about human efforts to abolish slavery in America; which, while interesting, was proving very little help regarding supernatural bondage. “Uh, Gabriel told me that Uriel was ‘confused.’ That’s the word he used: confused.”

“And he threatened you, yeah? To stay away from them?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “He said they might  _ confuse _ me too.”

“Must’ve happened before,” Crowley mused, starting to pace as he thought. “Gabriel thinks Uriel can get to you, they must have gotten to someone else. There are other angels out there, ones who Gabriel doesn’t want you talking with.”

“But how do we find them?” Aziraphale had thought the same thing, but he didn’t think it would reflect well on him if he started asking Gabriel for the names of angels he specifically  _ wasn’t _ supposed to discuss this with.

Crowley paced around the desk, looking out the window, still rubbing his face. “Didn’t you say Nephriel was awfully chatty?”

“Yes. She seems very invested in showing just how much she knows; how close she’s getting to Gabriel. You think I should ask her?” It seemed risky - anything he said to Nephriel would likely make its way back to Gabriel.

“I don’t think you have to  _ ask _ anything,” Crowley said with a knowing smirk. “She already feels threatened by you, because you could get a handle on Ebarak and she couldn’t. I think she’d jump at the chance to make it clear how new you are to this whole game. If there’s part of the story she knows and you don’t, it shouldn’t be hard to get her to spill.”

It sounded plausible enough. But how was Crowley so sure? “How do you know that’ll work? You’ve hardly ever spoken to her.”

Crowley tapped his temple, grinning widely at Aziraphale. “Demon, remember? And not just any demon - I’m a  _ tempter _ , angel. Eden’s original serpent. Trust me.”

Aziraphale smiled at that, feeling reassured. It was easy enough to forget that Crowley was excellent at his job, knew always how to convince people that what they wanted to do, and what he wanted them to do, were one and the same. Aziraphale didn’t know what he’d do without the clever Crowley at his side.

***

They waited until Valen was sleeping, not wanting him to hear Aziraphale feigning support for whatever nonsense Nephriel was spouting. Crowley showed Aziraphale how to set the phone on ‘speaker’ mode, which would allow both of them to hear the whole conversation, and Crowley sat poised with a notepad and pen, ready to silently coach Aziraphale through what would be an interrogation disguised as a friendly conversation.

“Why do you always call me with that earth phone?” Nephriel asked when she picked up. “Where’s your Heavenly tablet?”

In truth, Aziraphale hadn’t touched the thing in decades, and it was probably shoved in the back of a drawer somewhere in the clutter of his flat. “Er,” he began, looking to Crowley for help. 

_ ASK WHY _ , Crowley had written in his spindly, all-caps printing. 

“Why?” Aziraphale asked, unsure what he was actually asking for.

“It’s not as secure,” Nephriel said, rather condescendingly. “Anyone could be listening in.”

_ KEEP HER TALKING,  _ Crowley wrote, tapping on the message with his pen.

“Anyone? Like demons?”

Nephriel scoffed. “No, I doubt they’re smart enough to spy like that. But there are, you know...others.”

_ GOOD!!!  _ Crowley wrote, though Aziraphale still felt completely lost.

“Yes, yes, Gabriel mentioned something like that,” Aziraphale stammered. He felt like he was trying to get a footing on slippery ground.

“It’s not fair, that we should have to be careful about this, when we’re the ones doing the right thing, but not all angels are receptive to Her truth.”

_ MENTION URIEL,  _ Crowley scrawled.

“You mean like Uriel?”

“Ugh.” Nephriel sounded disgusted at the mention of the Archangel’s name. “Yeah. Like Uriel.”

_ ASK FOR ADVICE, _ Crowley wrote, holding up the pad in front of his face. 

“That’s, er, that’s actually what I called to ask you about,” Aziraphale said, doing his best to sound needy and lost. “I’m a bit worried that, since I’m so new to all this, I might accidentally speak to the wrong person, or trust someone that I shouldn’t. And since I know I can trust you, I just thought, well, I’d ask if there was anyone else I ought to be cautious with.”

_ GOOD JOB, _ Crowley wrote, flipping to a fresh sheet of paper. 

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Nephriel said airily. “There aren’t many other angels willing to stand up against Michael and Gabriel and Sandalphon, not these days.”

“Well, that’s good to hear,” Aziraphale said, trying to draw things out while watching Crowley write.

_ THESE DAYS? _

“I mean, er, what do you mean, not these days? Did something change?”

Nephriel gave an exasperated sigh, though Aziraphale got the sense that she was actually enjoying herself. “I guess you really are new to all this. Didn’t Gabriel tell you any of our history?”

“Of course he did, it’s just -” Aziraphale broke off when he saw Crowley gesturing frantically for him to stop. The demon had flipped back to the first sheet of paper and was circling the word  _ ASK _ with scribbled circles. Aziraphale’s instant instinct toward defensiveness was not serving him here, it appeared.

“I mean, that is to say, I’m sure Gabriel did his best to educate me, but I’m sure there are gaps in my knowledge - what history do you mean, exactly?”

There was a satisfaction in Nephriel’s tone as she continued, and Crowley seemed to relax. “Well, the reason we don’t have to worry much about anyone trying to challenge us is because the Archangels took care of that about three thousand years ago.”

“Oh?”

Fortunately, it seemed that Nephriel had found her rhythm, and didn’t need much more prompting to continue. “There was one angel, in Uriel’s platoon - of course - and she thought she would try and raise some kind of rebellion, rally her platoon to come free the demons. She was handing out pamphlets and everything.”

Aziraphale made a little noise to indicate how foolish and absurd he considered the concept.

“Anyway, it was right around the same time Hell was getting upset about the whole thing too - and thanks to Her infinite wisdom and goodness, the Archangels saw a way to solve both problems at the same time. It truly is beautiful, what we can accomplish when we’re open to the guidance of Her light.”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale murmured. Both he and Crowley were now leaned in close to the phone, as if to fully absorb every word Nephriel said. 

“As it turns out, even the Fallen can’t help but see the order and righteousness of Her Great Plan, when it’s presented clearly to them. They accepted a trade: one angel, theirs to keep as a trophy, in exchange for the demons they felt would most benefit from the redemptive process here in Heaven.”

Crowley looked absolutely stricken, and Aziraphale wished he would write something down, but he just sat frozen, listening to Nephriel.

“Hell - they agreed to this?”

“Well, of course. It all works out: they get an angel, and every so often, we get one of theirs. Most of our demons are still captured in the field, but whenever Hell sees fit to send one up, we gladly welcome them into the fold.”

“And - this angel, what happened to her?”

“Probably still in Hell, I’d figure. Her name is Zodiel, or it was, at least. I don’t know what happened to her, but we haven’t had any problems since, not even from Uriel.”

That certainly made sense, Aziraphale thought - even someone who vehemently disagreed with the practice would be loath to stand against three Archangels who could sell them into permanent captivity to Hell. 

“Well! That’s good.”

“Really, though, you should ask Sandalphon sometime about all this. He’s the one behind most of the deals and methods we use. If you want to know our history, get him talking!”

“Of course, thank you. I was rather nervous about making a wrong move, so I’m glad for your advice.”

“Any time! But call me on your tablet next time, okay? The signal on this earth phone is awful. I can’t even hear your aura.”

“Certainly, yes, I do apologize. Thanks, Nephriel.”

Aziraphale set the phone back in its receiver and looked at Crowley, who was staring blankly back at him. 

“Well,” the demon said after he gathered himself, “that certainly answers that question.”

***

Aziraphale didn’t sleep that night. Neither did Crowley. They didn’t talk much, either. The revelation that Hell was aware of Heaven’s enslavement of demons, and in fact sent the occasional demon into Heaven’s clutches, would take some time.

They had both hoped that Hell would be a potential ally; that the liberation of their demonic brothers and sisters might be a cause they could get behind. Now, it seemed they were up against all powers, ethereal and occult, with few supporters anywhere.

“Uriel,” Crowley grumbled at around six in the morning, after he’d been pacing for some time.

“What was that, dear?”

“Uriel. We have to call Uriel.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, taking off his reading glasses and setting them down on his desk. “It does seem like the next step.”

“The only step,” Crowley said with some finality.

“I ought to find my Heavenly Tablet, then,” Aziraphale sighed. “Don’t want Gabriel listening in.”

“Wanker,” Crowley muttered, resuming his pacing.

“Why don’t you get some sleep first, love? We could both use some.”

“No.”

Aziraphale hadn’t expected any other answer, but he had to at least credit himself for trying. “Alright. Help me look for the blessed thing, and then we’ll call Uriel.”

His Heavenly Tablet was finally located in the back of his china cabinet, having been used to balance a delicate teapot that stood on four spindly legs, one of which was broken. Crowley snapped his fingers and repaired the thing, rendering the tablet unnecessary, and handed it to Aziraphale. 

Taking a deep breath, he prepared himself for the call. “You’ll help me again, won’t you?”

“Shouldn’t need to,” Crowley said. “We’re just being honest, remember? And we don’t want them hearing my aura and getting spooked.”

“Yes, but…” Aziraphale took another breath, realizing just how nervous he was. “You’ll be right here, still?”

“Of course.” Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale from behind, resting his sharp chin on the angel’s head. “Go ahead, angel.”

When Uriel answered, they sounded irritated right away. Aziraphale wondered if perhaps it was too early to be calling, until he remembered that most angels don’t actually sleep. “What do you want, Principality?”

“Hello, Your Glory, good morning. I was hoping to speak with you about a matter of utmost importance regarding the presence of demons in Heav-”

Uriel interrupted Aziraphale, their voice curt and clipped. “I don’t have time for this, Aziraphale. Call Gabriel, he’s your supervisor.”

“Actually, I was rather hoping to speak with you specifically -”

Uriel sighed. “Look, Aziraphale. I know all about your... _ thing. _ You’ve been hanging around with Gabriel and Michael and Sandalphon. Every so often, one of their little ‘disciples’ gets it in their head that they’ll be the one to bring me into the fold, so to speak. But I don’t want any part of it, and I’d really prefer not to hear from you again.”

“Uriel, wait.” Aziraphale tried not to whine, but his voice was growing higher pitched by the minute. “It’s not like that, really. If you’d only listen -”

“I’ve listened to their garbage for millennia,” Uriel snapped. “And that’s what it is. Garbage. Heresy. Absolute nonsense. I don’t know why She hasn’t put a stop to it, and frankly, I never expected that you of all angels would be dragged into this. Now don’t call me again, and if you need anything, go see your little cult leader Gabriel.”

Hearing that Uriel was about to hang up, Aziraphale let his frustration and desperation get the best of him. “I hate Gabriel!” Aziraphale blurted out, half shouting into the phone. “I hate the whole lot of them! I love Crowley, and - and - it’s all a misunderstanding, I have to pretend so that I can protect him, and I want to stop them, I want to fix it all, and I need your help. Please, Uriel!”

There was silence on the other end, but at least Uriel hadn’t hung up yet. Crowley rubbed his hands up and down Aziraphale’s arms, his slow, firm stokes helping ground the angel.

Aziraphale took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. Then he laid it all out, from Gabriel’s first very confusing meeting with him, to the auction, and bringing Valen home. He told them about Nephriel and Ebarak, about Ramael, and about the research he and Crowley were doing.

Finally, Uriel spoke again. “This is very dangerous, what you’re doing.”

Aziraphale twisted the phone cord around his finger. “I know.”

“You could get a lot of people hurt.”

Something flared up in Aziraphale, a rejection of the defeatist sentiment. “I believe many more will be hurt if we _ don’t _ do something.”

“So you say.”

Aziraphale wasn’t about to give up. “Would you just come by and see what we’ve found?”

Uriel sighed. “I’m not interested in getting involved, Aziraphale.”

“Please, Your Glory. I really think that once you meet with us, you’ll see that there’s hope, that we can do something about this - this terrible thing.”

“Alright,” Uriel snapped. “I’m on my way.”

“Right - right now?”

“Yes,” Uriel said, in a slow and wary tone. “I’m sure that if what you’re saying is true, and you genuinely are working against Gabriel and his wayward ideas, you won’t have any trouble hosting me right now.”

“Of course!” Aziraphale made a wide-eyed expression at Crowley, trying to keep the his voice even. “We’re thrilled to have you. See you soon.”

“What was that?” Crowley demanded as soon as Aziraphale hung up.

“They don’t believe me,” Aziraphale said, rushing around the kitchen in an attempt to tidy up. “They think I’m working for Gabriel, trying to convince them to join this awful scheme.”

Crowley made a noise that could have been a laugh, if it wasn’t strangled by stress. “But they’re coming? Here?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, snapping his fingers and miracling a pile of dirty dishes into an empty cupboard without bothering to clean them first. “Right now. I think they mean to catch us by surprise.”

Whatever Crowley was going to say in response was cut off by the doorbell.

“They’re here.”

***

Uriel seemed very out of place, standing stiffly in the foyer and refusing all three of Aziraphale’s offers to take their coat. Finally he was able to usher everyone to the dining room table, where Uriel sat, straight-backed and with hands folded on top of a lace placemat, their stare penetrating.

Aziraphale stuttered his way through an introduction, doing his best to put both Crowley and the Archangel at ease. He explained that he and Crowley were living together, and that his “intimate friendship” with the demon had led Gabriel to draw “unfortunate and inaccurate conclusions” about the nature of their relationships. He told about the invitation to the slave auction, the horrors he had witnessed, the crystal sharding ceremony and the tattooing of the newly captured demon.

“I find the whole thing abhorrent,” he finished. “But I decided to play along, both for my own and Crowley’s safety.”

At the mention of the demon’s name, Uriel looked at Crowley for the first time since their arrival. The Archangel’s gaze was searching, suspicious, and lingered on the spot where Crowley’s hand rested over Aziraphale’s, their fingers laced gently together.

“And he’s here of his own free will?”

Crowley laughed and slung an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “He couldn’t get rid of me if he tried.”

Uriel shifted in their seat, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “And is it true that there is...another one, living with you?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “His name is Valen. He was in captivity for over four hundred years.”

Uriel raised an eyebrow. “Was? So you’ve freed him?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat, then coughed, avoiding Uriel’s gaze. “We’re, uh, we’re still working on that. Crowley and I are researching how to break the sigil and remove the shard without harming the demon.”

“So he’s still under your control,” Uriel said, their eyes narrowing. “Do you carry the crystal that binds him?”

Aziraphale could feel his cheeks blazing with embarrassment under Uriel’s questioning. “Yes, I do, but - only to help him, I swear, I’d never -”

“Only to help him,” Uriel repeated, their voice dark. “Yes, I hear that often from Michael.”

“It isn’t like that,” Aziraphale protested. 

Crowley cut in, placing a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder to calm him. “Valen is as free as he can be, under the circumstances, and we’re working hard on liberating him as soon as possible. Him, and all the other demons that your - that the other Archangels have captured.”

Uriel didn’t seem to appreciate being spoken to by Crowley, but they only pressed their lips together and turned to address Aziraphale. “I’d like to see him.”

“Valen? I’m not sure that’s wise, Your Glory,” Aziraphale said, squirming in his seat. Valen had only recently stopped being terrified of him, and he didn’t think the sudden presence of an Archangel would do much for the little demon’s health. “He - he’s very -”

Uriel stood from their chair and assumed a posture that indicated that they would not be barred from seeing Valen. “Where is he?”

“He’s upstairs, in his room,” Aziraphale said. “But, please, let me just go warn him-”

Rage flashed through Uriel’s eyes, and Aziraphale glanced helplessly at Crowley. He knew how bad this looked, how all of Uriel’s suspicions were being confirmed right before their eyes.

“You,” Uriel commanded, and Aziraphale realized they were speaking to Crowley for the first time. “Show me where the other demon is.”

With a wide-eyed shrug back at Aziraphale, Crowley turned to the staircase. Uriel followed, Aziraphale behind, fretting all the way. When they reached the blankets that hung from Valen’s doorway, Aziraphale stepped in front, blocking Uriel’s path, to make one final plea.

“Please, he’s very easily frightened, he doesn’t know you’re a friend - just give me one moment to help him prepare?”

“One moment,” Uriel said. “I’ll be here, listening.”

Aziraphale ducked through the curtained doorway, his hand already in his pocket, clenched around the crystal piece. “Valen, dear?” 

A pink nose appeared from under the bed, twitching as the ferret-demon sniffed the air. He obviously sensed the presence of another being, and Aziraphale tried to stay calm and reassuring as he spoke. “Would you mind switching back, please?”

There was Valen again, just as Aziraphale was used to seeing him, ice blue eyes and silver-blonde hair. He sat on the floor, looking up at the angel, his eyes nervously darting toward the door. 

“Yes, thank you. I’m sure you’ve noticed that there’s someone else here. That’s actually Uriel, another angel, and they want to see you, but -”

Before he could continue, Aziraphale was knocked off balance by Valen, who had thrown himself at the angel’s feet, clutching at his knees with both arms. “Please,” Valen begged, looking absolutely desolate as he knelt on the floor, “please don’t do this, don’t let anyone take me, please, I’m sorry, please, no -”

Having apparently heard Valen’s panicked pleas, Uriel pushed their way through the blankets. They glared at Aziraphale, who could only stammer out half-words, trying to soothe Valen and explain the unfortunate scene to Uriel. 

“And what is this?” Uriel stood with their arms crossed, the very picture of righteous fury.

At the Archangel’s appearance and raised voice, Valen increased the volume and desperation of his groveling. “Please, angel, please, I’ll be good, I won’t cry anymore when you do my hands, please -”

“I’ve seen enough of this,” Uriel declared, turning sharply on their heel and disappearing through the doorway. 

Aziraphale had to pry his legs from Valen’s clutches before running after Uriel, who was already storming down the stairs.

“Please, Your Glory,” Crowley tried, stepping in front of Uriel and reaching out with a placating gesture. “It’s not what it seems. If you’d only -”

“Out of my way, demon,” Uriel snarled, shoving Crowley aside as they made their way for the front door. 

“Uriel, wait!” Aziraphale called out from the top of the stairs, making Uriel stop and turn, looking up at him with a vicious glare.

“Gabriel must be very proud of you,” they sneered, slamming the door behind them hard enough to rattle the whole flat. 

***

“Well that went poorly,” Crowley said when Aziraphale finally made his way back downstairs. 

It had taken nearly an hour to get Valen to stop sobbing, pleading, and thanking Aziraphale for not sending him off with the Archangel; and then another thirty minutes before he had calmed enough to shift back into his ferret form and burrow under the bedclothes. Aziraphale could hardly bear to leave him like that, a little trembling ball, but he needed to talk things out with Crowley, and he didn’t think he had much else to offer the poor thing, anyhow.

“To put it mildly,” Aziraphale said, sinking into his overstuffed chair and reaching for the steaming mug of tea Crowley had prepared for him. “Thank you, dear.”

“So what’s our next move?” Crowley was agitated, pacing the room, running his hands through his already thoroughly mussed hair. 

“They’ll say something to Gabriel,” Aziraphale mused, sipping at the tea. “But he certainly didn't put me up to this, like Uriel thinks, and we don't want him nosing around."

“We’ve got to convince Uriel.”

“I don’t see how,” Aziraphale muttered darkly into his teacup. “They don’t seem too keen on you, and nothing I say seemed to make much difference.”

“Maybe there’s something we can do,” Crowley said, with the glint in his eye that indicated an idea forming.

“Oh?”

“We rescue their friend, that angel Nephriel was talking about. We march into Hell, and we bring back Zodiel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Completely unrelated, but if you're an American, the election is only 100 days away! You can make sure you're registered to vote and get a mail-in ballot here: https://votesaveamerica.com/be-a-voter/


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale come up with a plan to advance their cause and convince Uriel to get on board. It involves Ebarak, who is not very stoked to be someone else's pawn - but he is interested in the plan. Also, Valen is there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry about how late this chapter came out. I'll be real with you all, in the last few months I lost nearly everything I loved in my life, and it's been hard to get back on my feet. I know it sounds dramatic but it's pretty true.
> 
> I know this time is really rough for everyone and we're all dealing with a ton of loss and stress. This fandom and community have been there for me, and I'm so grateful. Thank you all for your kudos, your comments, and your patience. <3

Aziraphale sputtered for a moment, taken fully aback by the insanity of Crowley’s suggestion. “Us? Go into Hell and rescue an angel that’s been held captive for three millenia?”

“No more mad than anything else we’ve tried,” Crowley said with an air of bravado that Aziraphale had learned not to trust completely.

“And how on earth do you propose we do that? Especially now that we know Hell is in on all of this?”

“We know at least one demon that isn’t,” Crowley said. “We’ll get Ebarak to help us.”

“Nephriel will never agree,” Aziraphale complained, not even bothering to manage his own whinging defeatism. “Oh, this is a right mess, it really is. I’m so sorry, Crowley.”

“None of that, now.” Crowley reached over to take Aziraphale’s hand in his, demanding in his gentle way that Aziraphale buck up and look at him. “Listen. We know a lot about our friend Nephriel, don’t we? How she likes a bit of a heavy hand, and wants to be the big boss when possible.”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale said. “But what does it all matter?”

Crowley made an impatient noise, and Aziraphale suddenly felt like a foolish student in the face of a tutor just on the edge of aggravation. “Angel, I’m a tempter - remember, I’m  _ the _ tempter. Serpent of Eden and all that. Right?”

“Right, yes.”

“So that means I do know how to get someone to do what I want them to do, don’t I?”

“You very much do,” Aziraphale said, starting to cheer up a bit. He still didn’t have any idea what Crowley intended for them to do, but just the reminder of his beloved demon’s charms and wiles was a nice shot of nostalgia in a bleak evening. 

“Then all we need to do is have Miss Nephriel bring her household demon round here for a bit, right?”

“I suppose.”

“Just listen to me, angel, and we’ll be fine.”

***

Aziraphale was already dialing Nephriel’s number when it occurred to him that Crowley had only convinced him that it was possible to summon Ebarak to the bookshop without raising alarm, and that his much larger concerns about the feasibility of a search and rescue mission to the bowels of hell had not at all been addressed. 

Some tempter, he thought. Even after all these years, he was still a complete sucker for his husband’s wiles. Well, at least it was evidence that this part of the plan would work.

He hated it, though. This part of the plan. What Crowley had suggested - then actually scripted - for him to say to Nephriel was so distasteful he rather thought he’d need a half dozen pastries to scrub it out of his mouth.

But Crowley had been so confident and insistent, and it wasn’t like Aziraphale had any better ideas. So here he was, ringing up Heaven, holding Crowley’s notes in one trembling hand and praying politely that God could perhaps turn her ear away from him for a bit, if she hadn’t already. 

Nephriel answered with a relaxed cheer that Aziraphale would never be able to match.

“Oh hello, Aziraphale. Looks like you found your Heavenly tablet. What’s up?”

“Yes, er, I was hoping to ask you for another favor, if you wouldn’t mind. I’m, well, I’m having a bit of a problem with my demon as of late.”

“Really? What do you need?” Nephriel sounded surprised and yet somewhat pleased. Crowley had been sure that she’d be easily baited by the great demon-tamer asking for her help, and Aziraphale could see now that he had been right. 

“Well,” Aziraphale said, reaching for the coiled telephone cord to fidget with and finding none, since he was using his wireless Heavenly tablet, which was starting to feel warm and sweaty against his cheek. “He’s been, er, rather naughty as of late. I think it’s the solstice system, you know, Ouroborus in retrograde and all that. You know how demons can get.”

Nephriel laughed. “Oh, I know.” Everything Aziraphale had just said was utter nonsense, which Crowley had assured him would put the other angel on her off foot, her being unwilling to admit when she was lacking in knowledge and assuming that Aziraphale was speaking from some arcane wisdom. “So,” she asked, “you want me to come take him for a while? Lend you some training tools?”

“Not exactly,” Aziraphale said, taking a deep breath. Crowley was sending him steadying looks. He could do this. Just like they had practiced. “You see, when I had yours staying with me, I believe the two bonded. Mine seems to have an affinity for yours, as much as something like a demon can feel such.

I have tried absolutely every manner of punishment on him, but I’m afraid he’s such a tough bugger that he doesn’t respond to that kind of behavioral modification any more. However, I believe that if he were to witness the consequences of his actions taken out on his little friend, he might be more amenable.”

Nephriel paused for a second, taking it all in. Aziraphale knew he hadn’t spoken as casually or conversationally as Crowley had coached him to, but he couldn’t say such awful things without at least some of the distance that the flowery language gave him. 

Unfortunately, Nephriel’s way of summing it up gave him absolutely nowhere to hide, when she asked, “You want to punish mine and make yours watch?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, rubbing his forehead to try and keep his full-body grimace from making its way into his voice. “That’s the idea.”

“Works for me,” Nephriel said. “When do you need him?”

Given that it was what he and Crowley wanted, Aziraphale knew he should have been thrilled by the absolute ease with which Nephriel agreed. But he was just disgusted by her willingness to hand poor Ebarak over to suffering he hadn’t even remotely earned. 

“Er, this evening?”

“Sure thing. Mind if I stay to observe?”

Aziraphale continued rubbing his forehead, sure that he was going to bruise himself with his own thumb. Crowley had prepared him for this - he had been sure Nephriel would want to watch - and Aziraphale knew what he had to say. 

“I’m afraid that might render things less effective, according to my protocols. I need Cro - my demon - to understand fully that everything happening is due to his behavior, and not for the edification or pleasure of anyone else.”

Nephriel sounded disappointed. “Okay, that makes sense. See you this evening, Aziraphale!”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale mumbled, desperate now to get off the phone.

“Of course,” Nephriel said with a gentle condescension. “Any time you have a question, anything you need, you come to me first. No need for Gabriel to know you’re having demon troubles, not yet at least.”

“Very grateful,” Aziraphale said. “You’re a real friend.”

Then he hung up the phone. 

***

The handoff went well, or about as well as one could expect. Ebarak arrived naked, and chained, but looking less battered than he had the last time Nephriel brought him to the flat. 

Crowley was nowhere to be seen - they’d made sure of that - but that didn’t stop the angel from glancing around, looking for him. 

“When do you think you’ll be done with it?”

“Hm?” Aziraphale took a moment to process Nephriel’s question before realizing she was talking about Ebarak. “Oh, a few days or so. I’ll update you as soon as I can.”

“Great.” Nephriel handed over the chunk of olive wood, then flashed Aziraphale a grin that made him want to rip her teeth out. “Have fun!”

As soon as she left, Aziraphale immediately snapped his fingers, removing the chains from Ebarak and banishing them to some dusty corner of the basement, and handed him a neatly folded, freshly laundered version of the suit he’d worn last time he was there.

The demon took the clothing from Aziraphale without a word, dressing himself with slow, deliberate movements. As he did so, he ignored Aziraphale completely. Ebaraked seemed to be contained entirely within himself, detached from his surroundings and focused only on the clothing and whatever inscrutable consciousness lay behind his flattened affect.

It was only after he finished dressing that he finally looked up, making eye contact for the first time, his demeanor shifting to acknowledge Aziraphale.

“What’s this all about, then?” Ebarak asked as he buttoned his final cuff.

“Good to see you again,” Crowley said as he sauntered in to greet Ebarak. 

“And we’re all sons of the father of lies,” Ebarak said, looking around the bookshop warily.

“Why don’t we have some dinner,” Aziraphale suggested, hoping that a nice meal would mellow everyone out. There was a turkey roasting in the oven, and Aziraphale could tell Ebarak was interested in the smell wafting from the kitchen. 

Ebarak seemed amenable, and soon they were all at the table together, Crowley with a glass of wine, Aziraphale with a respectable portion of roast turkey and vegetables, Ebarak with the rest of the bird’s carcass in front of him.

Together, they explained what they had learned - how Uriel and a handful of other angels stood in opposition to the project Gabriel, Michael, and Sandalphon had undertaken. How they hoped to ally with Uriel, but had been unable to convince them of their sincerity, and worried that Uriel might accidentally reveal their liberation attempts to the other Archangels.

Then, what they knew about the backchannels between Heaven and Hell that kept an uneasy peace around this open secret. Ebarak listened, leaning back in his chair and chewing greasy turkey flesh off bones the whole while. 

When he finished, Aziraphale was rather surprised by Ebarak’s lack of reaction to the whole story. “Did you know that Hell was in on it?”

Ebarak’s expression grew clouded. “How do you think I ended up here?”

“You -” Crowley sounded taken aback. “They gave you up?”

The cicatrix nodded. “Sometimes, someone’s got to make a deal, or get rid of some competition. You end up on the wrong end of that lash, there’s nothing you can do.”

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale murmured, not knowing how best to offer condolences to a demon who had been betrayed by his own kind and sold into bondage. 

“So what am I here to do? Happy to tell you all about my miserable lot, maybe eat some barbecue, but you didn’t haul me back down here just for a chat and a chew, did you?”

“No,” Aziraphale admitted, his cheeks reddening. How thoughtless, to call on Ebarak just to help with a job. Was he no better than Nephriel and Gabriel, treating these demons like playthings to do his bidding? “I’m sorry, but - we do have a favor to ask. Are you aware of an angel, currently being held in Hell?”

“Yeah, they’ve got one down there. Access by special award, mostly. Plaything for the higher-ups.”

“So you know her?”

Ebarak shrugged. “Depends what you mean by  _ know _ .”

Crowley spoke up at once, as if to head off any follow-up. “We need to go get her.”

Ebarak laughed, a barking sort of sound that Aziraphale found rather off putting. “Okay. You, and what army?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, fumbling for the words. “We were rather hoping you’d help.”

At that, Ebarak’s entire attitude changed. He stood, his palms flat on the table, staring Aziraphale down with a shocked glare. “Let me get this all clear,” he growled. “You’ve gone ahead and lied to Nephriel, got me down here under false pretenses, and now you want me roped into some mission against Heaven  _ and _ Hell, both of whom have the power to make all my sorry fortunes even sorrier?”

“That’s about the long and short of it,” Crowley snapped, drawing Ebarak’s attention to himself, for which Aziraphale was deeply grateful. 

“You’re worse than everyone up there put together,” Ebarak snarled. “Do you have any idea what  _ either side _ will do to me if they catch us?”

“We’re very sorry to have to ask this of you,” Aziraphale started, but Crowley cut him off. He was standing now, staring Ebarak down. 

“We won’t get caught.”

Ebarak rose entirely from the table to stalk over and meet Crowley eye to eye. Aziraphale stayed seated, unwilling to get between two angry demons, but he kept one hand curled tightly around the chunk of olive wood in his hand.

“You think so, you little cousin of Jezebel? Either you’re stupider than I thought, or you’re trying to drag me into something for your own little games.” Ebarak drew himself up to his full height, menacing Crowley with a taunting turn of his head. “What was it? Did we have something in Hell that I don’t remember? Piss you off somehow, twist your balls too hard when it was my turn? Been walking around waiting for your chance at me, have you?”

Crowley rolled his eyes and sneered. “I’m not the one chained up in some angel’s bedchambers,” he said. “You wanna stay there forever, go ahead. You want to try and do something about it, listen to what the angel has to say.”

Ebarak took a deep breath, his chest puffing, then stepped back, away from Crowley, and wandered to the window, his hands shoved stiffly into his pockets. Aziraphale could see the tension in the demon’s broad shoulders, the tightness of his neck.

Finally, after a long silence, during which Aziraphale felt silenced and suspended by a taut anxiety that filled the bookshop and pinned all three beings in place, Ebarak spoke again.

“Is he coming?”

“Who?”

“The little one. Biting on himself all the time. Hates you,” Ebarak said, gesturing vaguely toward Aziraphale.

Aziraphale wanted to ask Ebarak whether he really thought Valen hated him, but he didn’t. Instead he said “No, I don’t think Valen ought to join. He’s still a bit...fragile, at the moment.”

Ebarak rolled his eyes and slammed his fist against the wall. “Fragile? He’s not fragile, he’s a damned  _ demon _ . You lot just have him thinking he’s something he isn’t.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard, resisting the urge to protest against being lumped in with other angels.

Crowley, bless him, jumped in. “Not sure he’d be of much use, anyhow. Dangerous mission and all.”

Ebarak rolled his eyes again. “You two get your brains from a lobotomy room floor? He’s got one of those things in him, doesn’t he? You, you’re carrying the other half.” The demon pointed again at Aziraphale. “What do you think happens to him if you get trapped down there? Just wasting away here until Heaven’s Best and Brightest come find him again? Of course he’s coming with us.”

“Us?” Aziraphale straightened up, giddy. “So you’ll help?”

“Sure. Fine.” Ebarak shrugged. “Might as well. But I’m having a sleep first. You can tell me all about your little suicide mission tomorrow.”

And with that, Ebarak turned and climbed the stairs as if he owned the place. Aziraphale heard the door to the second bedroom slam, and the flat settled into an uneasy quiet. 

***

They didn’t have much time, they all agreed, given Nephriel’s expectation that her slave would be returned within a few days. So they would head down to Hell that afternoon, after working the details of the plan out over a rasher of bacon and some muffins for Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale would play the part of Ebarak’s captured quarry, dragged down from Heaven by the triumphant demon. Already, Ebarak was swaggering around the apartment, having appointed himself the expert in all things related to Hell and its prisoners. Which was all to their benefit. No part of their plan would have come together were it not for Ebarak’s wealth of knowledge. He had been more than thrilled to expound, at length, on Hell’s policies and practices surrounding the capture and treatment of prisoners, ethereal and otherwise; and he was especially delighted by anything that seemed to make Aziraphale squirm or an opportunity to correct Crowley, whom he seemed to regard as some kind of lesser demon than himself (his own state of bondage notwithstanding.)

Crowley, for his part, had conjured himself some kind of shoulder satchel and coaxed Valen into it somehow. He assured Aziraphale that the plan had been well and fully explained to Valen, and that he would not be too disturbed by finding himself carried down to Hell in a handbag, as it were. 

Occasionally, Aziraphale saw a flash of quivering whiskers, or a pink nose peeking out to twitch inquisitively, but he did his best to ignore the sight. He hadn’t spoken to Valen since Uriel’s ill-fated visit. The surprise appearance of an Archangel had sent the little demon into quite a state, and Aziraphale didn’t think it prudent to fuss over him while he recovered.

“We’ll need to get him a bit bloodied,” Ebarak said, turning his head thoughtfully as he looked Aziraphale over. “Make you a real prisoner of Hell.”

Something about Ebarak’s gaze made Aziraphale’s skin crawl, and he looked away, folding his arms over his chest. The cicatrix was, for all his bluster about the plan’s foolishness, clearly enjoying himself as they made their final preparations. Aziraphale wondered for a moment if they weren’t taking a bigger gamble by trusting Ebarak than heading to Hell in the first place.

“No,” Crowley said. “We’ll miracle him up, if we have to.”

Ebarak laughed. “You think Hell will be fooled by a bit of glamour?”

“I think your kind’s been fooled by worse,” Crowley grumbled.

“It’s alright.” Aziraphale raised an arm for quiet. “He’s right. I’ve got to be, er, roughed up a bit.”

“I’ll do it,” Ebarak said, his eyes still on Aziraphale, his smile sharp and eager. 

“Absolutely not.” Crowley moved to stand between the cicatrix and the angel. “If anyone’s going to do it, it’s me.”

“You couldn’t pull a hair from his head, little snake,” Ebarak taunted.

“Enough!” Aziraphale stamped his foot on the floor. “I’ll do it my own self. And if you two can’t behave, we’ll have to call the whole thing off.”

That settled the matter, but then Aziraphale was left with the daunting task of damaging his own corporation. He thought about Ebarak’s intentional nose dive, but didn’t think he could bring himself to plummet into the pavement like that.

Instead, as both demons watched him intently - Crowley with concern, Ebarak with something more like pleasure - Aziraphale climbed the steps, then stood at the upper landing with his hands in his pockets. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and let himself fall, tumbling down the stairs in a flurry of painful bounces.

Crowley caught him at the bottom, cradling his head up from the floor.

Ebarak was applauding. “Excellent, excellent,” the cicatrix laughed. “Three or four more gos at it, and you’ll be just right.”

“He’s fine as is,” Crowley muttered, helping a now very sore Aziraphale up from the floor.

One of Aziraphale’s eyebrows was split and bleeding, and he had to take Crowley’s wrist and gently lower it to keep the demon from tending to it.

“I suppose we ought to chain me up, then,” Aziraphale said, doing his best to ignore the absolute strangeness of the statement. How had he gotten here, suggesting casually that two demons put him in chains, with the same casual manner he might have suggested a walk in the park and some ice creams, only a few short months ago?

Crowley hauled the chains up from the basement, his arms piled high with cruel metal, and together they set about costuming Aziraphale like some kind of prisoner. 

“Easy,” Crowley snapped as Ebarak ran his large hands over Aziraphale’s shoulder, yanking and tightening where he could. 

Ebarak ignored him, which surprised Aziraphale, given how rarely he let Crowley have the last word. But there was a near reverential focus to the cicatrix’s movements, something heavy in his breath as he tugged Aziraphale’s willing limbs into place and snapped manacles around his wrists.

Crowley hovered, fussy and defensive, quite unlike his usual self. All of his surety and bravado had dissolved into a nervous energy that Aziraphale was unaccustomed to seeing in his demon, unless it was his own being reflected back in Crowley’s sunglasses. 

Aziraphale wondered if they weren’t making a grave mistake.

Would it be possible to convince Hell that Ebarak was an agent returning triumphantly from the field with a captive of his own? Would Crowley, now tasked with carrying Valen as well, manage to hold it all together? Would he make it through, or would he join Zodiel as a prisoner of Hell, abandoned by Heaven? And what would become of Valen, the demon he had taken such total stewardship of and was now dragging into this likely-doomed endeavor?

It was too late to worry about that now, he told himself, squaring his shoulders as best he could under the weight of the chains. Ebarak had drawn his wrists together in front of him so that he could wrap his fists around the olive wood and the crystal pendant, allowing him to send as much of his energy as possible to the demons, especially Ebarak, who would be leading the odd party as an apparent conqueror.

“Alright,” Ebarak said with a glint in his eye and a smirk beginning to climb up his cheek. He tugged hard on the chain binding Aziraphale’s wrists, making the angel stumble forward and eliciting a pained growl from between Crowley’s gritted teeth.

“Let’s go.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale, Ebarak, Crowley, and Valen all venture into Hell to try and rescue Zodiel, who they think might be the key to getting Uriel on their side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, a new chapter! It's a bit on the shorter side, but I had a lot of fun building out the world of Hell as Ebarak knows it, and I hope y'all like it too.
> 
> Things are getting a bit better in my personal life - I'm settled into a new place and working through a bunch of grief with the help of good friends, a little bit of weed, and of course this lovely fandom.
> 
> If you're an American, please please go to [Vote Save America](https://votesaveamerica.com/) and make sure you're registered.

Aziraphale had never been in Hell before. He shivered slightly as the air, somehow both humid and frigid, hit his skin. 

They had gone in through a side entrance, Crowley opening the portal in a fetid London alleyway as Ebarak looked on, fists clenching and unclenching around the rope which held Aziraphale’s wrists tightly in front of him.

Now they were in a dark, narrow hallway - Ebarak in front, confidently leading the way, Aziraphale trailing behind him and doing his best to keep up. Ebarak’s olivewood crystal was wrapped tightly in Aziraphale’s hands, and as they entered Hell, Aziraphale could feel the demon start drawing more and more power from it.

Aziraphale focused all his angelic energies on the crystal, letting Ebarak take as much as he liked. It was rather draining, but Aziraphale figured that being a bit out of sorts would only make him more convincing as a miserable prisoner.

Behind them was Crowley, his serpentine footfalls as audibly recognizable to Aziraphale as the beating of his own heart. And, of course, Valen, tucked inside the satchel Crowley carried. Aziraphale held Valen’s crystal as well, in case of an emergency, but he hoped with all his might (since he was not sure whether it was good form to actually  _ pray _ while in Hell) that all would go well for the little ferret, at least.

“Not sure where we’re headed,” Crowley grumbled to no one in particular as they took a sharp corner and began to ascend some steps.

“Didn’t figure you’d be too familiar with these halls,” Ebarak said cheerfully. “It’s more the territory of the strong and able.”

Crowley muttered something in reply, but Aziraphale didn’t catch the specifics. 

“Don’t you worry, little snake,” Ebarak said, “I’ll get us right where we need to be.” 

The cicatrix sounded nearly giddy with confidence, and Aziraphale could see his posture straightening as they made their way up the stairs. He told himself that this should engender good faith - after all, if one were to wind up in the region of Hell known for the captivity and torture of high value prisoners, having Ebarak as a chaperone was probably one of the safest bets.

Still, as Crowley stalked stiffly behind him and Ebarak’s strength tugged him forward, Aziraphale could not honestly say that he felt anything approximating safety. 

Finally, they reached a waystation of sorts - some kind of podium, at which stood an unnaturally skinny demon whose flesh was in various states of decay. “Stood” was, perhaps, too generous a term, Aziraphale thought as he came into view. He was more draped over it, leaning with an attitude of contemptuous boredom. As they approached, Aziraphale watched as he poked a slender tongue out of a hole in his cheek and absentmindedly scratched at some kind of welt on his face.

“Ey,” Ebarak snapped at the demon, who looked up and slowly straightened from his slouch.

“What do you lot want?” The tall, rotting demon’s bored affect hadn’t changed one bit, despite the appearance of two demons and a bound-up angel.

“What the fuck do you think we want? You’ve got one job down here, so do it. We need a key.”

Without speaking, the demon opened a door in his podium, revealing a massive tangle of keys in all shapes, sizes, and materials. He grabbed one rather plain looking one and tossed it sullenly at Ebarak.   
  


“Not just any key, you gutbrains,” Ebarak snarled, crumpling the key in his fist until it was a lump of misshapen brass. “We’re headed to the dungeons on Seven.”

The key-holder demon laughed. “Don’t think you are, really. You need special dispensation from Sarin for a key to the dungeons on Seven. Last one went out around the fall of Babylon, I think.”

Ebarak advanced on the demon, pulling Aziraphale along with him. “Look here,” he growled. “You’re going to want to hand me that key.”

“Nah,” the demon said, scratching at his eyeball.

Then Aziraphale heard Crowley approach, calmly and without the menace rippling off Ebarak. “Look, mate,” he drawled. “We’re in a bit of a hurry - this here is a genuine angel, straight out of Heaven, and we’ve got maybe ten more minutes before the binding spells wear off and he’s free to smite us all to Kingdom Come, a kingdom where the likes of you and me aren’t too welcome.”

The key-guarding demon eyed Aziraphale suspiciously. “Doesn’t look that dangerous to me.”

“Alright, then,” Crowley continued. “Then you don’t mind us leaving him here while we go find our friend Sarin and get all this paperwork sorted out?”

“Uh -” he started to answer, but Crowley just turned on his heel and began walking.

The guard demon’s eyes darted nervously between Crowley and Aziraphale, then to Ebarak, as if to see what the other demon would do.

Aziraphale was equally anxious, if not for quite the same reason. He knew that if Ebarak didn’t drop the rope and follow Crowley, the bluff would fall apart. And it didn’t seem like Ebarak was all too keen on playing along with Crowley’s mind games, especially if they required him to let go of his power over the tied-up angel.

There was nothing Aziraphale could do to control Ebarak - despite the fact that in another reality, one that seemed galaxies beyond his reach right now, he was technically the demon’s current Master - and if only a few more seconds elapsed without Ebarak following Crowley’s lead, it would all be over. 

So he ignored Ebarak and turned his attention to the lanky, putrid demon. He glanced at his watch, then gave the guard demon his best falsely reassuring grin. “I’m sure I’ll be fine down here, for as long as it takes,” he said, sounding clever and self assured.

It seemed that his blue eyes still had their power to unsettle. “Alright, alright!” the lanky demon cried, yanking the podium’s door open again and digging in the mass of keys. He returned with a massive black key, which appeared to be covered in some kind of rust colored stains, and handed it grouchily to Ebarak. “She’ll have me flayed for this,” he mumbled.

“Doubt you’ll be so lucky,” Ebarak said cheerfully as he snatched the key. As they headed farther down the hallway, past the guard and his podium, Aziraphale could still hear him chuckling to himself. “A flaying, from Sarin!” Ebarak shook his head. “He really doesn’t know what vein he just opened.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard and tried not to concern himself with the fate of whoever they had just intimidated. 

Ebarak took them into a contraption that seemed a lot like an elevator, complete with squealing gears and jangling chains. Unlike the elevators on Earth, however, there was no certificate verifying that it had ever been inspected. Also, Aziraphale was pretty sure he could feel it moving laterally at times, and one lurch in particular felt stomach-churningly cross dimensional.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Ebarak grumbled once the metal grate of the elevator door closed. “I could have taken the key off him, no problem.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Crowley said, in a tone that suggested he might actually have doubted it. “But it seems to my mind that it’ll be easier to get in and out unnoticed if we don’t leave a trail of discorporations behind us.”

“Wasn’t going to discorporate him,” Ebarak scoffed, as if Crowley had said something exceedingly stupid. “Then he wouldn’t be any fun.”

With that, the elevator went silent. Ebarak had a self satisfied grin on his face, which Aziraphale knew by now was in response to the angel’s discomfort at the cicatrix’s sense of ‘fun.’ Crowley folded his arms and stared resolutely at the elevator door. 

Aziraphale did get a small glimpse of Valen, however, as he poked his head out and looked around. He appeared slightly more relaxed than usual, though Aziraphale didn’t fully trust his own fluency in demonic-ferret body language. 

When the metal grate shrieked upwards, they found themselves in a strange lobby of sorts, all smooth concrete and pillars. Three doors faced them. Ebarak stepped out and made directly for the first door, swinging the giant key around on his fingers as he did so. It struck Aziraphale how very at home the demon seemed here, no affectation in his swagger, no hint of anything but a self-assured familiarity.

Crowley, on the other hand, was jittery and tense, anxious to get home. Aziraphale could definitely understand that. 

The door opened easily with the key, leading them into another hallway, this one lit with glaring, buzzing fluorescent lights that made Aziraphale blink half a dozen times before he could see anything. For the first time, he was actually grateful that he was being led around by the rope around his hands.

Doors lined the hallway, all identical, stainless steel like morgue drawers, wide and imposing. Ebarak stopped in front of one, rubbed his beard as if considering it, then turned sharply and pulled Aziraphale down a few more doors before stopping again.

“Don’t tell me,” hissed Crowley after a moment of silence, “that you don’t know where she is.”

“Shut up,” Ebarak snarled, yanking open one of the door. Aziraphale heard a scrabbling sound and a low, plaintive whimper. Ebarak slammed the door shut.

“You told us you knew where she is,” Crowley said again, sounding equal parts desperate and enraged. 

“She’s close,” Ebarak said, pulling another door open and filling the hallway with high pitched screams before shutting it again. 

“Oh come on,” Crowley begged. “We can’t check behind every door, we’ll be caught.”

“Wait a minute,” Ebarak said, turning back toward the door he had just closed.

“A minute - no, that’s it, we’re calling this. Aziraphale, let’s get back home. Now.”

“Shut up,” Ebarak shouted, holding a hand up for silence. “Listen.”

Ebarak opened the door again, and all Aziraphale could hear were piercing shrieks that made him want to rend his clothing and weep for whatever soul was locked in that room. 

“We’re not here for you to get your jollies -” Crowley began, before Ebarak broke into a toothy smile and interrupted him. 

“I know that guy.”

“You what-” Aziraphale meant to ask, before he was startled into silence by Ebarak pulling him forward so that the demon could lean forward into the open doorway. 

“Hey!” Ebarak shouted into the toture chamber. “Hey, Nocivus! Get over here!”

Crowley was giving Aziraphale a baffled, terrified look. While he agreed that this had all taken a very strange turn and he’d much prefer to be at home right now, Aziraphale could only shrug and return Crowley’s wide-eyed gaze.

They heard some thumping footsteps, and then Ebarak was flung from the doorway in what looked like a combination of brawl and embrace. Another demon - Nocivus, Aziraphale had to assume - had flung themselves directly into Ebarak and the two were laughing, shouting, and exchanging heavy handed thumps. Aziraphale had only kept his footing because Ebarak had let go of the rope in the commotion.

“Knew it was you in there, Noci,” Ebarak said, shoving the other demon hard in the chest. “I’d recognize your work anywhere.”

“Ebarak!” the other demon shouted, pausing the action to take in the sight of him. “I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again!”

“You didn’t think, eh?” Ebarak boxed the other demon right in their ear. “Nothing’s changed around here after all.”

Nocivus smiled, then stood, pulling Ebarak to his feet too. Aziraphale took in the other demon, who had a round face with short, bluntly-cut brown hair and round black eyes. They were heavyset and muscular, wearing an all black ensemble that reminded Aziraphale of a soldier’s uniform.

“Really, though,” Nocivus said, her too-round eyes narrowing to an almost natural shape, “Didn’t Sarin send you...upstairs?”

“That she did,” Ebarak said. “Where do you think I got this?” He picked up Aziraphale’s rope from the floor and gestured triumphantly to the angel, who did his best to look cowed and disoriented. 

“You escaped Heaven and you took an angel prisoner with you?” Nocivus was nearly alight with glee. “No one’s ever made it out before.”

Ebarak shrugged. “They’ve never tried sending me before.” 

“That’s thrice-damned right,” Nocivus shouted, loud enough to echo through the hallway. Aziraphale thought he heard a vague thumping in reply from behind one of the metal doors. 

“And who’s this one?” Novicus gestured at Crowley, who had been lurking a few paces behind the group. 

“Crowley, nee Crawly, Serpent of Eden,” Crowley said, presenting his hand to shake. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Yeah, he’s been helping me a bit,” Ebarak shrugged. “Sarin doesn’t know I’m out yet, best not to let anyone important in on the game.”

Crowley scrunched his eyes up in a false smile as Novicus shook his hand in what looked more like an attempt to snap his fingers than a cordial greeting. 

“So,” Nocivus continued, leering at Aziraphale as if he were a prize cut of meat and making Aziraphale take a defensive step to hide behind Ebarak, “you looking for a room for this one?”

“Actually,” Ebarak replied, “I was planning to put him in with the other one, at least to start.”

Nocivus gasped in delight. “Angel _conquasso_? You’d be the first, at least since the War!”

“That’s the plan.” Something in the two demon’s shared joy made Aziraphale very unsettled. Instinctively, he reached out to take Crowley’s hand, only dropping his arm abruptly to his side when he realized how dangerous that would be.

“You’ve got to let me join,” Nocivus said, taking a step forward to tower over Aziraphale, looking him up and down. “Two angels,” he murmured.

“Ah, Noci, I’ve been playing slave in Heaven for nearly eighty years,” Ebarak argued, his grip on Aziraphale’s rope tightening possessively. “I want ‘em all to myself, at least to start.”

“Come on,” Nocivus whined. “We did the Marchand thing together, and that was great.”

“Leave me be, Nocivus,” Ebarak said, his voice going low.

“She’s in the last door down the hall.” Nocivus pointed. “Race you for it. I win, you let me play too. You win, I wander back to  _ le petit nazie _ back there.”

Before Ebarak could reply, Nocivus had turned and began sprinting down the corridor, shifting almost immediately into the form of a great Rottweiler, nothing but hard muscle and black fur and pumping legs.

Ebarak spat what sounded like a curse in some forgotten language and took off after the dog, tossing Crowley the rope, which Crowley refused to touch, letting it fall to the floor as if it would burn him.

Aziraphale felt all the breath go out of him as Ebarak pulled enough power from the crystal to become a hawk as he pursued Nocivus.

Crowley and Aziraphale walked slowly behind the two, grateful for a chance to talk alone. 

“We’ve got to get Marmaduke here gone somehow,” Crowley muttered.

“Marmaduke?”

“Big stupid dog. You never read the cartoons? Why are we still getting that paper every day? Kid tosses it right in my geraniums half the time.”

“Focus, please, dear.”

“Right. I’ll try and distract them, draw them away somehow. Not that hard to tempt a demon,” Crowley said, his jaw tight.

“Please do be careful, Crowley,” Aziraphale pleaded. 

“You just worry about keeping our bruiser under control and getting Zodiel back safe. I’ll join you at the flat soon as I can.”

“Crowley, I don’t think we should split up -”

Aziraphale was interrupted by the piercing cry of a hawk as Ebarak descended onto Nocivus’s canine form, digging his massive talons into the dog’s neck. With a snarl, the dog collapsed, and the two became a frenzied blur of teeth and fur and blood.

“Lord have mercy,” Aziraphale breathed.

“Not down here, angel.” Crowley sighed. “You’ll have to take Valen. Here.” Crowley began to lift the strap of the satchel over his head, preparing to transfer it to Aziraphale.

“Oh, don’t,” Aziraphale snapped. He was starting to feel lightheaded as Ebarak drained all of his powers, and Crowley had to adjust his long strides just so the angel could keep up. “How would that look, handing off your demonic tools to the prisoner?”

Despite Aziraphale’s slow and labored pace, they were growing closer to the end of the hallway, where the two demons were still locked in vicious battle. “He’s not safe with me,” Crowley said, leaning in close to be heard over the sounds of the brawl. “Sigil blocks all demonic powers, angel. He needs to stay with you.”

Aziraphale didn’t have time to reply before a loud yelp erupted from Nocivus. Ebarak had yanked him into the air by his neck and tossed him back down the hallway, where he scrabbled to his feet just before crashing into Crowley and Aziraphale. 

But before he could make it back to Ebarak, the hawk demon had returned to his other form and was leaning victoriously against the final door, one wide hand pressed hard to the metal, the other stretched out to fend off a final attack from Nocivus. He was badly bloodied, and one of his shoulders hung at an odd angle, but he was laughing.

“Aw, curse your bones to Kinoue-Kodo,” Nocivus shouted, shifting back as well and spitting some bloody flesh onto the floor. 

“You never did have half the speed of a mouldy peasant,” Ebarak teased. “Nor the sense.”

“All these eons working together, and you’ll really shut me out of Hell’s first angelic _conquasso_?”

Ebarak shook his head. “All these eons working together, and you really expect to me to bend to a plea like that?”

Nocivus laughed. “It is a fool’s game to expect pity from a cicatrix, even one a bosom friend.”

“Anything you play is a fool’s game, Noci,” Ebarak said good-naturedly.

Crowley stepped forward then, holding out Aziraphale’s rope in one hand and the satchel carrying Valen in the other. “It’s been an honor,” he said, bowing slightly to Ebarak as he handed the items over to a confused looking Ebarak. “I think it’s time I learn about this Marchand affair.” He turned to Nocivus, maintaining his unctuous posture. “And you said something about a French Nazi?”

Nocivus looked more than willing to take on a new audience. Aziraphale fought against a lump in his throat as he watched Crowley turn away from him and start walking alongside Nocivus.

“Oh, Nocivus!” Ebarak called down the hall as they left, interrupting the beginnings of what sounded like a very violent monologue.

Nocivus turned back, curiosity flashing in their round dark eyes. 

“Next time you see Sarin, give her her a message for me.” Ebarak then proceeded to make a series of noises that sounded like a fire cracking and roaring, like metal screeching on metal, like bones shattering and gurgling lungs. It scraped at something deep inside him, and Aziraphale wanted to raise his hands to his ears, but of course they were bound in front of him him, and so he just shut is eyes and winced. 

“Sure thing,” Nocivus said. The dog demon smiled, but they seemed shaken by whatever Ebarak had said.

With that, he and Crowley continued down the hallway, their voices fading, Crowley doing his best to feign great interest even as Novicus apparently punctuated some statement by shoving Crowley hard against the wall.

“Alright,” Ebarak said, turning to open the door. “Let’s get our angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nocivus's name comes from a Latin word meaning "to harm or cause injury."
> 
> The Marchand affair that Nocivus and Ebarak had such a good time working together refers to the torture and death of French missionary Joseph Marchand in Vietnam. 
> 
> Any guesses as to who _le petit nazie_ is?
> 
> Conquasso will be explained in the next chapter; but theories on that are welcome as well.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Aziraphale makes it to Zodiel's cell and sets about phase two of the plan, which is "get her out of Hell, somehow." It's not a great plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IF YOU ARE AN AMERICAN PLEASE VOTE!!! [ Click here for info and help to do so!](https://votesaveamerica.com/)

For a moment they stood in silent stillness. Aziraphale waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. He blinked - once, twice - and then he could see again. There was Ebarak, broad shouldered and seemingly in his element, standing just in front of him. There was Valen’s satchel on the floor by his feet, a pink nose darting out to sample the cell’s cool, damp air.

And there, lying on a narrow bed that hung from the wall by two chains, was a figure he could only assume was Zodiel.

Though he couldn’t see any wings, Aziraphale was nearly sure she was an angel - something about her had a softness, an angelic quality, that he’d never known in a demon. She seemed to be half-dressed in a tangle of dirty robes that were mostly lying on top of her.

Her skin was ashen and pale, her face round, narrow eyes half-closed under dark lashes. Her cracked lips were barely parted. One arm dangled down to the floor, fingers curled gently.

“Zodiel,” Aziraphale whispered, taking a tentative step toward her. His wrists were still bound, but he reached out toward her in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.

She didn’t move. She didn’t speak. Only her eyes opened just a bit more, and their deep brown irises slid over, watching him intently. Through them he saw something flash, something like - pity? Sadness?

“We’re here to help you,” he murmured again, kneeling down beside her, still not touching her.

Ebarak was now beside him, looking over the captive angel with curiosity.

Aziraphale wanted to just hand this whole accursed situation over to Ebarak, who seemed to understand much more about everything than he did. Aziraphale felt another wave of fatigue roll through him as Ebarak pulled more and more energy from the crystal in his hands.

“What’s wrong with her?” 

Ebarak bent over Zodiel, peering down intently like a doctor over a patient.

Or a mortician over a corpse.

Or a hawk over a kill.

“Her corporation is shot,” Ebarak finally said, poking one of his fingers between the angel’s ribs. “Put back together too many times by demons.” He shook his head as if disappointed with his colleagues' handiwork. “Things just don’t heal right in Hell. Nerves all knotted up, nothing works right.” He prodded her arm, making her fingers twitch. 

The whole time, she stared up at Aziraphale, something light and comforting in her eyes even as the strain of fear was evident.

“But she can hear us?”

“Oh yeah. Totally conscious.” Ebarak leaned even closer in, nearly eye to eye with the angel. “Hears and sees everything. Feels it too, I bet.” He flicked at her nose experimentally.

“Oh, don’t!” Aziraphale cried, getting to his feet as quickly as his bound hands would allow. 

Ebarak shrugged and took a step back from both angels. 

Now standing, Aziraphale could see that Valen had climbed out of the bag entirely and was now perched on top of it, watching the entire scene, pinprick black eyes darting between Ebarak and Aziraphale.

Aziraphale felt his mouth go dry. Valen was watching. What would he think, seeing Aziraphale playing the prisoner and rescuer all at once? Was he deciding who to trust? 

He swallowed and tried to wrench his attention away from the ferret and back to Zodiel and Ebarak. “Well, what do we do now?”

Ebarak cocked his head, reminding Aziraphale very much of a hawk. “Why ask me? She’s your angel.”

_ No, she isn’t _ , Aziraphale wanted to shout.  _ She isn’t mine. She isn’t yours. No one is mine! _

He decided not to argue. Instead he took a deep breath, tried to settle his shoulders back, and forced himself to look back toward Zodiel, still very aware of Valen’s eyes on him. “Well, we need to get her out of here.”

But how? Aziraphale’s mind spun. He hadn’t exactly planned this part out. He knew they couldn’t just waltz back through the halls of Hell with Zodiel tossed over a shoulder. He wished Crowley was here. It was always him who saw strategy, who thought about things like this. And now he was off somewhere in Hell, cleaning up after Aziraphale again, handling an unforeseen complication. 

Aziraphale would have to handle this one on his own.

“Are there any exits around here?” Aziraphale asked Ebarak. “Not back the way we came. Somewhere closer.”

Ebarak nodded. “Plenty of ‘em. More entrances than exits, though. We don’t like a lot of fuss once we’ve got someone ready to bring down here.”

Aziraphale pointedly ignored that. “Well, can’t we leave through an entrance? What’s the difference?”

Ebarak laughed, a laugh that Aziraphale could very much tell was  _ at _ him. “Sure, if you really wanted to.”

“Alright, then.” Aziraphale summoned up every ounce of confidence he could find. “Let’s go.”

“What about the skinny one?” 

Aziraphale was nearly sure that Ebarak did know Crowley’s name - and Valen’s, for that matter - and was just refusing to use them. 

As Aziraphale opened his mouth to answer, he noticed Valen, staring directly at him, two little saucer shaped ears turned to capture everything he said. He got the feeling that everything happening here, anything he said or did in this little cell, was informing the demon’s vision of him in a powerful way. 

“Crowley is his own demon,” Aziraphale said, choosing his words carefully. “I hate to leave him down here, but he’s - he’s free and he can make his own way. Right now, our priority is getting Zodiel safely out of captivity. We’d only put her and ourselves in more danger going after Crowley, and he wouldn’t want that. I trust him, and he trusts me - we trust each other. He’ll meet back up with us on Earth. It’ll be okay.”

Ebarak had clearly tuned out most of Aziraphale’s little monologue, but he hoped he’d manage to communicate what he intended to Valen. 

“So, let’s go, then.” 

Ebarak bent over to lift Zodiel, and a protective jolt through Aziraphale’s heart made him interrupt the demon with a cough. “I, er, I could carry her,” he offered. “If you would be so kind as to...” He held out his bound hands with a meaningful look.

“Won’t look right, angel,” Ebarak said, completing his action and throwing Zodiel over one of his shoulders, her bluntly-cut black hair falling in limp strands down his chest. 

Aziraphale figured Ebarak was right - if they ran into anyone, it would cause no end of trouble. But he still hated it. 

“Tell you what,” Ebarak said, a teasing twinkle in his eye. “I’ll let you carry the ferret.” 

Before Aziraphale could protest, Ebarak had scooped Valen unceremoniously back into the satchel, then hung it around Aziraphale’s neck.

They crept into the hallway then, Ebarak easing the door open and checking for anyone around before stepping out into the bright lights. Aziraphale followed, trying to keep the satchel from bouncing too hard against his belly as he walked. There was no sign of Valen besides the weight inside the bag - he must have been curled up tight. Aziraphale glared at Ebarak’s back, angry at the demon’s rough treatment of Valen.

They made their way down the long hallway slowly, Ebarak taking the lead, Aziraphale doing his best to ignore the moans and screams coming from behind various doors. He kept his eyes on Zodiel’s bare feet, their bottoms strangely clean for the environment, dangling lifelessly against Ebarak’s back.

Finally, just when Aziraphale thought he could stand no more tension, his heart pounding in his throat as they crept through the too-bright halls of Hell’s dungeon, Ebarak stopped in front of a door. He shoved it open, jostling Zodiel in a way that made Aziraphale wince, then called into the room. 

“Hey, anyone in here?”

Aziraphale heard a chorus of mumbled groans in reply, but Ebarak just walked right through the doorway. Aziraphale followed. Instantly, his nose was hit with a rank odor - something he’d realized he hadn’t noticed yet. It smelled like rot and death and decay and sweat.

Like earth.

Like humans.

The room was full of huddled shapes, curled against the far walls. Humans. One of them crawled its way toward the open door, reaching out with a trembling arm towards the light spilling in from the hallway.

Ebarak deftly kicked the human away and closed the door behind him. “Depository,” he said simply, before walking toward the center of the room. Aziraphale could barely force himself to follow, stepping delicately in the demon’s wake. 

He considered trying to mutter some kind of blessing, something he could do for these suffering humans, but it was just too risky. He couldn’t, not with Valen and Zodiel on the line.

And Crowley. And himself. And Ebarak.

_ But why are those lives so much more precious to you than these humans? _ A voice inside of him asked. It was the same voice that liked to remind him that he had purchased Valen like so much chattel, and that he had left plenty of other demons - no more deserving of their lot - behind.

_ I’m trying, _ he told himself, gritting his teeth as he made his way forward.  _ I’m just one angel. I can only do so much. I want to help everybody. I’m trying.  _

Tears threatened at his eyes, and he scrunched up his face, trying to hold them back. He wished Crowley were there. Then he felt guilty for that, too, wishing Crowley into such an awful place. 

Aziraphale was abruptly yanked out of his miserable reverie when he walked straight into Ebarak, who had stopped in the center of the room and was standing still with his neck craned upwards toward the ceiling.

“What?” Aziraphale demanded, trying to use his bound hands to steady the satchel hanging around his neck after smashing it against Ebarak’s back. He hoped Valen hadn’t been too disturbed. 

Ebarak remained where he was, staring up at the ceiling. “We wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“Deposit.”

Aziraphale had absolutely no idea what was going on. He lifted his hands together to rub at his face, which felt sweaty and hot. He tried not to jostle Valen’s satchel. He wished he could shut his ears and nose. 

And his heart. 

“What is this place?” Aziraphale hissed, after enough time had passed that he felt entitled to some conversation.

“Depository,” Ebarak said again.

Aziraphale ground his teeth. It occurred to him for the billionth time that he could be standing right in a trap of his own making. Heaven might have shoved some stone in between Ebarak’s shoulder blades, but he was still a demon - a Cicatrix, no less - and here was Aziraphale, tied up and at his mercy, standing literally in the dungeons of Hell.

“This had best not be a trap.” 

Aziraphale hadn’t meant to say the words out loud. The level of menacing accusation in his voice surprised him. He bit back an apologetic gasp as Ebarak turned around to face him.

“Martyr’s teeth, you’re a dense one,” the demon said. “What business would I have with that?”

“I - you’re -” Aziraphale glanced around the room as if it would make his point for him. 

Ebarak sniffed, a curt sound Aziraphale wasn’t used to hearing from him. “You come asking for my help, and I do it, knowing they’d baptize me for it in an instant, and you…” He looked Aziraphale up and down and shook his head, almost sadly. Then he turned back to his former pose, standing with his head tilted up toward the ceiling.

“What does that mean?” Aziraphale’s desperation for a subject change as well as his potent curiosity took over, and he was talking again, despite himself.

“What.”

“Baptize.” Aziraphale caught himself fidgeting with the satchel, then stopped, not wanting to disturb the ferret sleeping inside. “Gabriel said it before, too, back when - a while ago.”

Ebarak twisted around again, narrowing his eyes at Aziraphale. Zodiel’s head bobbed with the movement. “How stupid are you, really?”

“I, er,” Aziraphale stammered.

“You’re an angel, stationed on earth, and you don’t know what a blessed baptism is? Dunk someone in holy water, swish ‘em around til they’re good and consecrated.”

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale replied. “But why would - oh.”

Ebarak smirked and turned back to the ceiling. “And if they find out about this little rescue mission, they’ll do it to me, and Valen, and Crowley, and probably even you, if they can. Without even the decency of a final flight.”

Ebarak spoke with such certainty that Aziraphale guessed he had witnessed such an execution before, up in Heaven. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispered. 

“Got any more questions for me while we wait?”

He did, as a matter of fact, and he didn’t much mind whether Ebarak’s invitation was laced with sarcasm. “What’s...you said it before, what you said you were going to do to me. Con…?”

“Oh please,” Ebarak said, not turning around this time. “Don’t tell me you don’t know conquasso.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Didn’t you tell Nephriel that’s what you needed me for?”

“Beg pardon?”

Ebarak sighed theatrically, his whole body the picture of exasperation. Aziraphale wondered if Zodiel was comfortable. If she was listening.

If Valen was listening.

“Well you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Aziraphale said peevishly. Forgetting for a moment that his hands were still tied, he went to cross his arms before realizing that was rather impossible.

“Hurt one, make the other watch,” Ebarak said plainly. “Doesn’t work so often on demons. Humans, though, it’s something else.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale didn’t want to interrogate too deeply what it meant that he had somehow managed to come up with what seemed to be standard demonic torture, all on his own.

Apparently energized by the conversation, Ebarak pointed to a pair of humans pressed tightly against each other, their larger combined shape barely visible on the far edge of the room. “Bring me those two, I can show you.”

“No, no thank you,” Aziraphale stuttered. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Never got to try it with angels, though,” Ebarak mused. “Noci’s probably spitting with envy, thinking I’ve got you two all to myself.”

He sounded quite pleased by the thought. Aziraphale found it less comforting to hear that Crowley’s ersatz chaperone was likely in a foul mood.

Aziraphale was more than happy to let things drop there, lapsing into an odd silence. In front of him stood Ebarak, studiously watching the ceiling, a battered and paralyzed angel draped over one shoulder. At his chest he held a satchel containing Valen in ferret form, who didn’t seem at all interested in re-joining the little cadre.

And, of course, all around them were wretched humans, whose occasional trembles or whimpers never escaped Aziraphale’s attention, try as he did to ignore them. 

_ Perhaps they all deserve this _ , he told himself.  _ After all, they are in Hell. _

_ That’s exactly what Gabriel and Michael say about the demons they’ve taken, _ a much more credible voice reminded him. 

Aziraphale was just beginning to despair, working up the courage to ask Ebarak again what the plan was and what exactly they were waiting for when his thoughts were interrupted by a vicious grinding of stone against stone, and a dim, watery beam of light coming down from a hole in the ceiling.

Two legs, and then a torso, were shoved unceremoniously into the hole. Ebarak quickly raised his arms and grabbed the poor human currently being “deposited,” preventing him from being dropped onto the floor below.

Grunting and cursing sounds came from above. Something pushed hard at the human, but Ebarak held him fast, pinning the body against the ceiling and ensuring that whatever trap door had been opened stayed wedged open.

More annoyed shouts and violent attempts to force the human down through the opening. Ebarak shoved back. The human groaned. Aziraphale kept his eyes on the light that filtered down - real sunlight, he was sure.

Then Ebarak was yelling something upwards, those same crackling, awful noises he’d made before. Aziraphale knew nearly every Earthly language, but this was something else, something entirely infernal. In the faint light he saw Zodiel’s toes curl, her bare feet tighten and tense.

One final slamming kick against the ceiling panel, and then all went still. Ebarak jerked the poor human back and forth, using his ribcage to pry the trap door open, then left him dangling there like the world’s most unfortunate doorstop.

“Alright then.” Ebarak stretched up on tiptoes and half threw, half slid Zodiel up onto the ground above. He turned to Aziraphale and began to untie his hands. Aziraphale kept his eyes on the square of light and the little fringe of jet black hair he could see hanging down.

Ebarak lifted a now unbound Aziraphale up, shoving him quite ungently through the hole. Aziraphale found himself in a misty graveyard, the headstones mossy and crumbling, the grounds unkempt. 

He looked back down to see Ebarak climbing up to join them, letting the human fall to the dungeon floor in a twitching heap. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, rather surprised to see Ebarak so willingly follow them back up to Earth. “Wouldn’t you rather - I mean, you don’t have to - can’t you stay?”

Ebarak shook his head, an acidic smile on his face. “Wish all angels had your brains,” he said, and Aziraphale was clear that none of that was meant as a compliment. “Nothing for me down there, not while I’ve got this thrice-damned rock in me.”

Aziraphale had nothing to say to that. He would be returning Ebarak to a world of cruelty and self-negation, just as some demon had just delivered an unlucky human to an eternity of torment in Hell’s dungeons.

_ You’re no different, _ the voice told him.  _ No better. _

Well, he thought grimly, at least the blackness of his soul after all this would make a fine proof to the Archangels that demons and angels were equally deserving of punishment.

Whether that “equally deserving” meant that all deserved to suffer, or that none did, he hadn’t quite straightened out.

He was yanked from his dark thoughts yet again by Ebarak making an impatient noise, which Aziraphale thought was somewhat rich after all his nonsense in the “depository.” The demon was standing with Zodiel once again over his shoulder, looking at Aziraphale expectantly.

“What now?” Aziraphale demanded.

“Well I can’t exactly get us back,” Ebarak groused. 

“Right.” Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment at his own rudeness. Ebarak couldn’t perform any miracles, couldn’t use his demonic powers, was helpless as long as the crystal and sigil held him bound. 

Aziraphale was still holding both demon’s crystals in his closed fists, both now warm and sweaty after being clutched so tightly for so long. Now that they were no longer in Hell, Ebarak’s draining pull had subsided. Again, Aziraphale tried to imagine the horror of being so cut off from his own powers, so dependent. He felt awful for Ebarak, and for Valen, even while he pitied Hell’s victims.

Somehow, he’d found himself in a world where nearly everyone deserved his pity  _ and _ his blame. Including himself. It was all very uncomfortable. 

But right now, his focus had to be on getting home. Hopefully, Crowley would be there already. He had no idea how long they’d waited in the depository, but it should have been enough time for Crowley to make it back out, unencumbered as he was.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, looking away from Ebarak as he did so, unwilling to see whether the big demon would flinch. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale struggles to heal Zodiel. Valen cares a lot about this new rescued captive. Crowley needs some socks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay in posting this chapter! I got distracted by other writing projects, and also by trying to live a life, and you know. Election, holidays, pandemic, you know this, we're all living in the same year. Bit of a short chapter, and not much action, but things will start to pick back up in the next chapter - just needed to get back in the saddle, so to speak. Huge thanks to all my fandom friends, readers, commenters, and everyone else who's kept me going!

Crowley was waiting for them in the library, pacing with anxiety, “Where the Hell have you been?” he blurted out as soon as they arrived, apparently too agitated to see the humor in the idiom. 

“Darling,” Aziraphale cried, falling into Crowley’s embrace while awkwardly trying to navigate Valen’s satchel out of the way. He ended up setting it gently on the floor by their feet, hoping the little ferret would realize he was free to wander out.

“Eugh,” Ebarak said, dropping Zodiel onto one of the library’s sofas.

“No, no,” Crowley scolded, peeling himself out of Aziraphale’s embrace and waving his hands at Ebarak. “Not there.”

Aziraphale jumped in, lifting Zodiel into his arms with ease, unimpressed with Ebarak’s handling of the angel. “Where to?”

“The house made her a room,” Crowley said, his tone airy. “Come on.” He led the entire procession upstairs - Crowley, looking relieved and in control; Aziraphale, carrying Zodiel’s alarmingly light frame like a child; Ebarak, wandering along; and Valen, bouncing along behind them.

Aziraphale gasped at the loveliness of the new bedroom. A massive window at the far wall was open, letting in plenty of sunlight and a light breeze, which rustled the gauzy white curtains. A large bed was set with the head against the window, covered in fluffy white pillows and a sky-blue quilt. Soft thick carpet covered the floors.

The room was warm despite the open window, and stepping inside Aziraphale felt a comforting sort of hush, as if the space itself was infused with welcome. He laid Zodiel down on the bed as gently as possible. In this light, she looked even more frail - but her eyes were fully open, taking in the entire scene, looking up at Aziraphale with a myriad of emotions he couldn’t begin to interpret.

“You’re safe now,” Aziraphale said. Crowley and Ebarak stood in the doorway, but Valen had come into the room as well and climbed onto the bed, watching curiously. 

“Can you understand me?” Aziraphale asked softly. Zodiel’s eyes scrunched slightly in response, then her gaze slid over to look at Valen, perched at the foot of the bed.

“He’s alright,” Aziraphale said. “His name is Valen. He lives here too.”

Zodiel looked back at him, seeming reassured.

“I’m going to try and heal you, okay?”

Aziraphale laid a tentative hand on Zodiel’s arm, trying to send a healing miracle into her. But there was nothing there - nothing that would take the miracle, at least. He tried again, and she let out a strained, scratchy groan, her eyes closing tightly.

“Corporation’s shot,” Ebarak said from the doorway. “Like I said.”

Aziraphale took a step back from the bed, horrified at his inability to relieve Zodiel of her injuries. “What does that mean?”

“Only so much a body can take,” Ebarak explained. “Even an angel’s. She needs a new one.”

“Surely there must be something we can do!” Aziraphale cried. “Are you in pain?” He asked Zodiel’s motionless form. “How can I help you?”

Ebarak chuckled. “Don’t think she has an answer for you.” He took a few steps into the room and tilted his head, breathing deeply as if he were trying to detect an odor. “Yeah, there is pain, though.” He licked his lips, a smirk beginning to form on his face.

“Oh, get away,” Aziraphale cried. It wasn’t fair to take his frustration out on Ebarak, but it wasn’t as if he had any better targets. Ebarak took in another long inhale, looking pleased with himself, then ambled out into the hallway and disappeared.

“He’s probably right, angel,” Crowley said, walking over to lay a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Not much we can do for her right now.”

Aziraphale found himself dissolving into angry, hopeless tears - everything that he’d managed to keep under control while they were in Hell. “No, no, that can’t be. I’m an angel, I - I - I just want to fix it!”

“I know,” Crowley soothed, rubbing a circle on Aziraphale’s back. 

Then, a quiet voice, coming from the foot of the bed. “Her face.”

Aziraphale and Crowley both snapped their heads up, in the direction of the voice. There was Valen, in his plain grey shirt, his silver-blonde hair sticking out in all directions, his icy gray eyes trained on the angel in the bed. 

“Pardon?” Aziraphale said, as softly as he could manage.

Valen looked at the floor near Aziraphale’s feet and started to bite at one of his nails, mumbling around the finger in his mouth. “Face. Always hurts the most. If you can’t do much, at least...at least that.”

Aziraphale leaned over Zodiel, inspecting her face. She didn’t seem to have any fresh or external injuries - no black eyes, no split lips - but he remembered what Ebarak had said.  _ Nerves all knotted up _ .

“May I?” Aziraphale reached a tentative hand out toward Zodiel’s forehead. Her skin looked waxy, her black hair flat against the pillow. He rested his hand there and focused absolutely all of his energy on her. With great effort, he was able to knit back some muscles, relax some nerves, put a bit of the mangled corporation back to rights.

Something softened in Zodiel’s face, then. There was slightly less tension there. Her eyes seemed more alert. Aziraphale let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He looked up to see Valen watching him intently. 

“Thank you,” he said.

Valen bowed his head, seemed to curl into himself a bit, still chewing on his fingers. 

“Probably ought to get her cleaned up a bit,” Crowley volunteered.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and all the stench and filth of Hell disappeared from Zodiel’s body, as did the tattered fabric she’d been half-wrapped in. She now wore a soft white nightgown and was tucked in under the quilt. 

A tiny contented murmur made its way out between her thin, peeling lips and Aziraphale felt his heart leap and burst at the same time. 

“What next?” Aziraphale was turned toward Valen now, even though the demon was still staring pointedly down at the floor. “What else can I do for her?”

Valen didn’t respond. Aziraphale saw a bit of red bloom on his cuticle where he was tearing at it with his teeth.

“When you first got here, Valen,” Aziraphale said as gently as he could, his voice almost a coo, “what did you want? What would have helped you?”

Valen’s eyes darted up, meeting Aziraphale’s for one brief moment, wide with panic, then snapped over to Crowley, as if the red haired demon had some kind of answer for him.

“Go ahead,” Crowley said. “You can tell him.”

Valen dropped his hands to his sides, twisting at the hem of his shirt. He opened his mouth to speak, made a strangled little sound, then tried again. “It’s not...I don’t really know her.”

“Yes, I know,” Aziraphale said, “but you know more what it’s like than either of us. What did you most want, after...after I brought you here?”

Again, a choked noise, as if Valen was trying to speak but something was stopping him.

“Please, Valen,” Aziraphale tried again. “It’s okay. I just want to know.”

Valen’s hand was back in his mouth, his face screwed up, his breathing going rapid.

“It’s alright,” Crowley said. “I’m gonna tell him. Okay? I’ll say it for you.”

Valen looked absolutely terrified now, wrapping his shirt around one fist, shoulders hunched. 

“Say what?” 

“Space, angel,” Crowley sighed. “He wanted you to leave him alone. Less fussing, more...I don’t know. Alone time.”

Valen quailed at hearing this, backing against the wall, arms crossed around his middle as if to protect himself.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “Of course.”

Of course Valen wanted less of him around, especially at first. And of course he was too frightened to say so, even now.

“Well, in that case, we’ll head downstairs now. Zodiel, we’re working hard on getting you back - on helping you. I’ll come see if you need anything later.” 

Zodiel’s eyes slipped closed. Aziraphale hoped she would be able to sleep. 

Crowley took his hand and together they made their way down to the first floor, where they could post up in the library and figure the rest of this mess out.

Valen didn’t follow them. Aziraphale figured he had gone into his own room, but when they rounded the stairs and he glanced upwards, he saw the little demon sat just outside Zodiel’s bedroom, his back against the wall, arms draped over his bent knees, as if standing guard over her.

***

“How did you know?” Aziraphale asked later, once tea and wine had been poured, and Hell-fouled clothes had been changed, and he and Crowley were settling in for yet another night of research. 

“Hm?”

“What he wanted. Valen.”

“Original tempter, remember?” Crowley flashed him a cocky grin. “‘S my job to know what people want.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale was grateful that Crowley hadn’t said something like  _ Wasn’t it obvious, angel? _ Even though he was pretty sure that it had been. 

“So what are we going to do about her?” Crowley sipped his wine, flipping aimlessly through a massive tome on binding spells. Aziraphale had just checked on Zodiel, who seemed to be sleeping deeply. Valen remained at his vigil, legs curled up under him, sitting on the hallway carpet. Ebarak was off somewhere, flying around in his hawk form, likely terrorizing London’s population of rats and small dogs.

“Well, she needs a new corporation. And the only ones who can sign those out are the Archangels.”

“So, we call Uriel, then. Isn’t that why we rescued Zodiel in the first place? To prove to Uriel that we’re serious about this?”

Aziraphale squirmed in his seat, shifting his mug of tea from one hand to another and back again. He hoped no one had heard Crowley say that. 

“Well, I was rather hoping...to have a bit more to show them.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed, crossing one leg over his knee and leaning back to wrap an arm around Aziraphale. “Not the best look, her like that.”

“But we can’t do anything about it without Uriel’s help,” Aziraphale whined. “Crowley, this is an absolute mess.”

“I know, angel. C’mere.” Crowley tugged Aziraphale toward him, drawing the angel down to lean against his chest. A few demonic miracles kept Aziraphale’s tea from sloshing out as he snuggled up. 

“Here’s what I think we ought to do,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale had never been more thrilled to hear those words. “Once Zodiel wakes up, when she’s good and rested, we call Uriel, make sure they’re alone, then swap to video. Show them who we have here with us.”

“And what if they...draw the wrong conclusions?”

Crowley twirled one long finger around in Aziraphale’s snowy curls. “We’ll explain, trust me. They’ll see.”

Aziraphale had nothing to say to that. After all, he very much wanted Crowley to be right.

When Ebarak returned, perching on the window and pecking to be let in, Aziraphale realized he had yet another problem on his hands. Nephriel would be expecting him back, worse for the wear. 

No. Aziraphale wouldn’t have it. He might not have much power here - no power to heal Zodiel, no ability to calm Valen - but this, he could do. He waited for Ebarak to make his way into the kitchen, where he would no doubt help himself to whatever fowl Aziraphale had, cooked or raw, and he called up Nephriel on the bookstore’s front desk phone.

When he explained that he was “making some interesting progress” and wished to keep Ebarak for at least another week, Nephriel sounded quite willing to extend Aziraphale’s possession of the demon. Aziraphale almost felt relieved for the ease of the conversation, until she explained that it was because Ramael was about to receive her own first charge from Sandalphon, and Nephriel would be glad to have the extra time to tutor her friend in the intricacies of demonic ownership.

Aziraphale hung up, feeling just as helpless as he had before the phone call, if not more. The arbitrariness of it all made him want to scream. His desire to protect Ebarak from Nephriel’s cruelty had now doomed another demon to harsher treatment, and it seemed his focus on this larger project of Uriel’s alliance and Nephriel’s rescue had distracted him from doing anything about Ramael’s deepening indoctrination.

Frustrated and with nothing else to do, Aziraphale decided to check on Zodiel. But when he was halfway up the stairs, he saw Valen, still at his vigil, now leaning against the doorframe of Zodiel’s room. He turned to look at Aziraphale as the angel approached, and Aziraphale stopped on the stairs, keeping his head level with Valen’s even as the demon sat on the floor. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said. “For earlier, for - for everything. For helping.”

Valen nodded. He looked so small, sitting on the hallway carpet with his knees tucked up to his chest. Aziraphale wondered what kind of demon he was, or had been, before Heaven ripped it away from him. Crowley was a tempter, Ebarak was a cicatrix - who was Valen?

“I just, er,” Aziraphale started, no longer sure it would be wise to try and check on Zodiel so soon after leaving her alone. “Came to get something from the bedroom.”

Valen nodded again, his pewter eyes following Aziraphale as he continued up the stairs. 

Aziraphale ducked into his and Crowley’s bedroom, looking for something plausible to grab and bring downstairs, then settled on a pair of Crowley’s socks. On his way out, he glanced inside Valen’s room, hoping for some clue about the personality buried under centuries of captivity and suffering.

It was, as always, a veritable labyrinth of blankets and pillows and other household things, piled in mounds and shoved together to create little hollows. Aziraphale wasn’t sure he’d gleaned anything new from it, but he couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast between the cozy warren of Valen’s room and the bare hallway where he currently sat.

It was a risk, sure - but Aziraphale was so tired of his inability to do anything effective, and he was willing to take it. He bent over and grabbed up an armful of the stuff on Valen’s floor, hoping he wasn’t going to terrorize the demon further by messing with his things. He carried the messy bundle down the hall and offered it to Valen with an awkward “Are you comfortable?”

Valen looked cautiously happy about the offering, and nodded again. Aziraphale set the pile down, and Valen immediately took to snuggling himself up in it. He instantly looked happier, curled up under the blankets, a lumpy little nest propped up against one edge of the doorway. Once he got settled, he found one finger in his mouth, chewing at it absentmindedly. 

“And, if you wanted, I could heal your hands, too, if...if you like.” Aziraphale hated seeing the raw and bleeding flesh left behind by Valen’s nervous fidgeting. He knew, too, that the cleansing and healing ritual offered Valen a rare opportunity to express his feelings, to relax into an acknowledgement of his own pain. After returning from a journey through Hell, he thought it might benefit Valen to take some time to be cared for.

But Valen surprised him with his response. Instead of standing up and obediently following Aziraphale to the bathroom where the first aid kit sat ready on the counter, or ducking down into a frantic refusal, he simply drew one hand out of the covers and held it up to Aziraphale expectantly. 

“Oh - oh,” Aziraphale said, the significance of the gesture dawning on him. He reached out and took hold of Valen’s hand, channeling his healing magic into it and watching the skin soften and knit back together. Valen withdrew his hand, then presented the other one, simply and easily. As soon as Aziraphale healed that one, it went straight back to the demon’s mouth, which Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile at.

“Thanks for watching over her,” Aziraphale said, letting his gaze drift over to Zodiel’s motionless form. “You’re doing great. She’ll be just fine.”

At that, Valen smiled - a rare sight, one that gave Aziraphale a bit of hope.

“Alright, then. I’ll be downstairs. You do what you like, and please let us know if anything changes, alright?”

“Okay.”

Thrilled that Valen had spoken this time rather than given a timid nod, Aziraphale headed back downstairs, ready to convince Crowley that his feet were cold and that he did, in fact, need to put on some socks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ERRATA: In a previous chapter, I referred to Valen as a rodent. It has been brought to my attention by the brilliant @Mevima that ferrets are not rodents. I could claim that this was intentional, since the POV character is Aziraphale, and he thought whales were fish, but I must be honest with you, dear readers, and confess that it was the narrator's mistake. <3


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uriel has Zoom fatigue. Ebarak is very relaxed.

As the week wore on, an anxious tension settled throughout the house. Though Aziraphale didn’t exactly regret his decision to ensure Ebarak could stay longer, he was also not exactly enjoying the demon’s presence either. Ebarak seemed agitated, endlessly pacing up and down the stairs and shifting into his animal form multiple times per day, nudging Aziraphale with his not-exactly-demands for the angel’s energy. The crystals in his pocket felt more like like weights around his neck.

Valen, too, was on edge, especially when Ebarak was hovering around the doorway trying to peek into Zodiel’s room. He remained at his post in the doorway, and had begun dragging more and more items out of his bedroom to build up his hallway nest. 

Crowley, for his part, grumbled about tripping over the ever-growing pile of Valen’s things in the hallway. He too seemed sensitive to whatever was driving Ebarak to distraction, or perhaps whatever agitation Ebarak was exuding. Unlike Ebarak, who was constantly wandering back and forth in the upstairs hallway or on the stairs, Crowley kept his distance from Zodiel’s room as much as possible.

Though Aziraphale wished he could do more to tend to Crowley, or try to calm the unpleasant energies bouncing around the bookshop, he was deep in his own distraction, trying to find a way to help Zodiel regain at least enough of her strength to convince Uriel of their good will.

On the third night since Zodiel’s arrival, nothing much had changed in her status - she continued to lay still, her eyes closed. Aziraphale wondered whether she was truly sleeping, and wanted to try speaking with her again, but he worried it would upset Valen if he disturbed her, and didn’t feel up to that delicate balancing act so late in the evening.

And so he was on the sofa, poring over a 19th century book on speaking with “angelic entities,” wondering if at least he could help Zodiel communicate with them. Crowley was curled up next to him, watching as Ebarak came down the stairs for the umpteenth time that day and began a circuit of the library. 

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale muttered, half to himself and half to Crowley, “I could get her voice back. Give her a way to speak.”

He was startled to hear Ebarak’s voice in reply, rather than Crowley’s. “Won’t work,” the hawk demon said, stopping by a bookshelf and poking at the spine of a leatherbound book roughly enough to make Aziraphale wince. “Throat’s one of the first things to go. A hard thing to get back, a voice.”

“You’d know,” Crowley grumbled.

Ebarak didn’t seem insulted, despite Crowley’s tone, and instead just gave a predatory grin and went back to messing with Aziraphale’s bookshelves. “You want to try getting something restarted, go for the heart. Those things never want to stop pumping. Just keep going and going.” He held up one hand and mimed what looked like a beating heart - or, rather, a hand holding a beating heart.

Beside him, Aziraphale heard Crowley make a low, warning snarl. He rested one hand on the demon’s thigh, trying to keep the situation from escalating. Ebarak dropped his hand and shrugged.

“The heart won’t do,” Aziraphale said. “We need something that shows Uriel that she’s okay. You can’t see a beating heart on a video call.”

“You could always -” Ebarak began, before Aziraphale cut him off.

“Stop.”

Ebarak did stop, then, snapping his jaw shut and resuming his ambling. Aziraphale hated to be gruff with Ebarak. It felt wrong, unfair. He tried to act as if the demon was simply a strange houseguest, rather than a slave technically in his possession. But even houseguests toed the line sometimes, and given how tetchy all three demons were acting these days, he’d found it necessary a few times to make his displeasure known.

Of course, he would only ever speak to Ebarak as an equal, and never hint at threatening him with the power he held over him. Still, it was an unavoidable fact, one that didn’t disappear just because Aziraphale did his best to ignore it.

Crowley made an irritated huff and settled in more snugly against him, which didn’t seem like it should have been possible. Aziraphale considered gently shifting position, or asking Crowley to stop crowding him, but decided against it. Instead, he set the book down, wrapped one arm around Crowley, and surrendered to the cuddle. Someone knew, they both needed it.

***

After seven days had gone by, Aziraphale was about ready to take a page out of Valen’s book and start chewing on his own cuticles. And since that would absolutely not please his manicurist who already had to deal with him appearing on her schedule at odd days, he certainly had to do something to move things along.

“That’s it,” he declared on the seventh morning, once he’d finished pretending to read the newspaper while keeping an eye on a very strained game of demonic chess between Crowley and Ebarak. “I’m calling Uriel today.”

Crowley looked up at him, surprised. Ebarak took the opportunity to move some pieces around on the board. “Everything alright, angel?”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale said, impressing even himself with his airy tone. “And I don’t see it getting any better without involving Uriel. So we ought to call her. Today.”

“Right now?”

“No,” Aziraphale said, considering. “We ought to get some preparations made first.”

“So I’ve got time to finish kicking your ass,” Crowley said, turning back to Ebarak and the chess game.

Ebarak gave a menacing chuckle in response. Aziraphale went upstairs, not wanting to involve himself in anything going on between the two demons.

Valen was, as usual, somewhere at the entrance of Zodiel’s room, giving her plenty of space while keeping a watchful eye on her lifeless body. He looked up suspiciously, then dropped his shoulders, relieved, when he saw that it was in fact not Ebarak coming up the stairs.

“I have something to tell you,” Aziraphale said, lowering himself to sit cross-legged on the hallway carpet. “Do you remember, a while back, when the archangel Uriel came to the house?”

Valen’s expression clouded at the mention of an archangel, but Aziraphale knew he had to continue.

“Well, they’re the reason we were able to go to Hell and save Zodiel. They’re on our side - mine, and Crowley’s, and yours - they’re not working with Gabriel and the others. So we need them to come back. Here. Today.”

Valen started biting at a fingertip, which at least told Aziraphale that he was listening and understanding enough to get nervous.

“We’re completely safe around Uriel, but they’re having a hard time trusting us. Last time, I know you were startled, and I think Uriel was upset by seeing you upset, and, well, I thought you should have some warning today. If you’d prefer, you can go somewhere else, and never have to see Uriel while they’re here.”

Aziraphale had expected Valen to choose this option, to want to hide from Uriel, but instead he turned to look at Zodiel for a moment, his jaw set, his expression stony. He wouldn’t leave Zodiel’s side, Aziraphale realized. Aziraphale had been a fool to think he ever would. Especially now that Valen knew Uriel, whom he obviously considered dangerous, was coming. 

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, “you’re entirely welcome to stay and meet them.”

Valen met Aziraphale’s eyes, his own gaze resolute. “They’re coming here to help her?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale rarely felt capable of making such a strong promise these days, but he was certain that Uriel of all people would do nothing to harm Zodiel, her old friend and long-lost ally. 

“I’m staying.”

Aziraphale had never heard such steel in Valen’s voice, and he felt a wave of pride for the little demon. 

“But…” Valen sounded less confident now, the standard timidity creeping back into his voice. “Could I…” he trailed off, pointing at Aziraphale’s pocket, where he carried the crystal Valen was bound to. 

It was a clear enough gesture, even if Valen didn’t often work up the courage to ask for access to his ferret aspect. “Absolutely.” The crystal was hard and cold against his fingers as he sent his energy, his power, to a being who otherwise would have none. 

In an instant, Valen had changed form, becoming his ferret self and scampering up the blanket pile to perch at the top with his front paws in the air, his whiskers twitching.

“Alright,” Aziraphale said, pulling his Heavenly tablet out of a drawer in his desk. He hated the stupid things, and much preferred to use his earthly phone, but between needing to be able to call Uriel with video and worrying about Michael or Gabriel finding out, he had to use it.

“Ebarak, Uriel will likely be here soon,” he said as he tried to remember how to navigate the directory on the phone. “Do your best to seem relaxed, would you please?”

“Is that an order?” Ebarak, having apparently finished his chess game with Crowley, was standing near one of the bookshop’s front windows, watching the humans outside with keen, hawkish eyes.

“Uh.” Aziraphale put the phone down. Ebarak’s tone had been sharp. Threatening. Aziraphale needed to focus. “No, it was a friendly request.”

“You don’t have to make a friendly request, you know.” Ebarak gestured toward Aziraphale’s pocket with his chin. “You could just make me.”

“Well I’d prefer not to.” Aziraphale looked around for Crowley, but he wasn’t in the library. 

“What if I didn’t?” Ebarak asked darkly. “What if I got myself back in those chains, begging at your feet? All perfectly pitiful for the great archangel.”

“I don’t - I wish you wouldn’t.” Aziraphale didn’t understand what game Ebarak was playing. Why would he  _ want _ to be treated as a slave, when Aziraphale had done his best to give him every opportunity not to?

“Because that would ruin your plan.” Ebarak took a step toward him, his shoulders raised, his smile wicked. “Sure would help if I just did what you wanted me to, right?”

Aziraphale fought the urge to take a step backwards, holding his ground beside the desk. “I’m asking you as a friend.”

“You ask lots of things of me,  _ friend _ .”

Aziraphale couldn’t really argue with that. He squirmed with shame, finding that he had no answer. Would he be this willing to call on Ebarak if he knew the demon could say no? What did it say of him, to ask anything of someone unable to refuse?

As he stood, frozen, unable to come up with any kind of satisfactory answer, Ebarak’s expression shifted from one of menace to absolute glee. He broke out in a broad grin then began to laugh, throwing his head back and howling with it.

Valen appeared at the top of the upstairs landing, looking down at the scene below. Crowley also found his way into the library, walking at a pace quick enough that it was clear he had rushed inside.

Ebarak was still laughing, raucous and almost abrasive. 

Aziraphale was certain he had missed something crucial. Or that perhaps he was going a touch mad. It wouldn’t be much of a surprise, given how things had been going lately. Either way, he felt entirely lost.

Aziraphale looked over at Crowley, desperate for some kind of clarity. The demon looked relieved to see Aziraphale, but he kept his eyes mostly on Ebarak. 

“What’s going on in here?” Crowley’s tone was level. Even. Almost aggressively so.

Aziraphale gave a baffled shrug. Ebarak straightened up, wiping at one eye, the hysterics finally dying down. 

“Nothing,” he said, still giggling. “All good in here.”

“I...I think he was just teasing me,” Aziraphale said, still feeling shaken. 

At this, Crowley’s eyes narrowed into a glare. “Don’t.”

Ebarak put his hands up in surrender. “Just teasing. Like he said.”

The two demons stared each other down for a few more seconds, then Ebarak dropped his hands and sauntered off into the kitchen.

“What was that all about?” Aziraphale asked, finding the sofa and sitting down before his legs turned to jelly. 

Crowley didn’t join him, instead staying where he was so he could keep an eye on the entryway to the kitchen, as if watching out for Ebarak’s return. 

“If the cicatrix is laughing,” he muttered, “then nobody else is.”

***

Aziraphale gave the whole house a few hours to settle down, figuring the strange energy of the morning would not be an effective welcome for Uriel. But once he had a few cups of tea, and after Crowley and Ebarak played a rowdy game of demon chess that provided an outlet for all the hissing and screeching and incomprehensible insults they had apparently been saving up for each other, Aziraphale decided that it was time.

He marched up the stairs, his Heavenly tablet gripped tight in one hand. Crowley followed close behind, but to his relief, Ebarak stayed downstairs. 

“We’re going to call the archangel now,” Aziraphale said to Valen, still perched at the top of his fabric mound. The ferret’s ears perked up, every muscle in his lithe little body tense and ready. Zodiel, too, turned her eyes to look at Aziraphale, though he could hardly begin to tell how the angel was feeling. 

Uriel answered after a few rings, which Aziraphale told himself was a good sign. But the archangel’s tone when they appeared on the screen dashed that hope.

“Aziraphale, this is highly inappropriate. There’s no reason to call me, let alone on video, and since Gabriel is your supervisor, I -”

“Look!” Aziraphale cried, turning his body so that Zodiel’s face was visible behind him. “She’s here, and we rescued her, but she needs your help, please!”

At that point, Uriel launched into a tirade in the angelic tongue, full of curses and threats, enough to make Aziraphale wince and hold the phone as far away from himself as possible. 

Crowley grabbed the tablet and started shouting over the archangel, loudly and aggressively enough to shut Uriel up, which Aziraphale found impressive and terrifying in equal measure.

“LISTEN!” Crowley said, thrusting the phone toward Zodiel’s face before bringing it back to his own. “Believe us or don’t, the fact is that we WENT INTO HELL and we BROUGHT BACK THIS ANGEL and she needs a new CORPORATION but it’s a SECRET from the other archangels because they’re all a bunch of wankers so if you’d just LISTEN for one blessed minute -”

The line went dead. An instant later, there was a heavy pounding on the door downstairs.

Aziraphale raced to open it, letting in a furiously flustered - or perhaps simply furious and flustered - Uriel. 

“Where is she?  _ Where is she? _ ”

Aziraphale led Uriel upstairs - a path that took them past the library, where he saw that Ebarak was lounging on the sofa, his muscles straining every single seam of Aziraphale’s favorite smoking jacket, while chewing on a chess piece for some reason.

“I’m very relaxed,” he called loudly as the two angels hurried past. Uriel ignored him.

At the sight of Zodiel, Uriel stopped short, bringing their hand up to cover their mouth, their eyes brimming with tears. “Oh,” the archangel breathed, taking in the odd scene. Valen, Aziraphale noted, had climbed up onto the bed, and was curled in a tight circle, his chin resting on his hind legs with his tail draped over his face. A casual observer might think the ferret was sleeping, but Aziraphale could see his eyes were open and focused entirely on the archangel.

“She’s alive,” Uriel whispered, dropping their hand and taking a tentative step inside the bedroom. Whatever spell had come over the archangel quickly fell away, returning Uriel to their standard attitude. “What’s wrong with her? What have you done? What’s he doing?” Uriel pointed accusingly at Crowley, who was standing quietly to one side of the room. “And why is there an  _ animal! _ ?”

Crowley looked ready to say something that Aziraphale guessed would be a bit too snarky and defensive to placate Uriel, so the angel cut in with a throat clearing.

“To put it succinctly,” Aziraphale began, pausing to make sure he had the attention of everyone in the room, demons and angels alike, “I, along with all the current inhabitants of this house, harbor a deep...distaste...for the actions of Gabriel, Michael, Sandalphon, and those they’ve, er, recruited into their project. I personally stumbled upon these atrocities after Gabriel became confused by my -”

“You said  _ succinctly _ ,” Uriel snapped, their suspicious eyes darting between Aziraphale and Zodiel.

“Right. Well, when we learned about Zodiel, we organized a mission into Hell -”

“Who is we?” Uriel interrupted again.

“Myself, Crowley here, and two other demons who are currently, er, technically in bondage to Heaven, but are living here under my protection.”

“You went into Hell,” Uriel repeated, their tone cautious, doubtful. 

“Yes.”

“With two demons -”

“Three demons,” Aziraphale corrected.

“And you retrieved her.” Uriel’s full attention was now on Zodiel. They stepped closed to the bed, reaching down to take the angel’s pale, lifeless hand in hers. Aziraphale kept his eyes on Valen, who hadn’t moved but remained alert, watching Uriel’s every movement.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, his voice growing softer. “And she’s alive, but...it seems her corporation has been damaged beyond repair. I did my best to heal her, but she can’t speak, or move, until her corporation is replaced. And only archangels are authorized to -”

Uriel whipped toward him, concern and rage blazing in their eyes. “Does Gabriel know about this?”

“No!” Aziraphale raised his hands, placating. At the archangel’s raised voice, Valen had lifted his head and bared his sharp teeth. “It’s just us,” Aziraphale said, as calmly as he could. “And you, now. Please - she needs your help.” He paused, steadying the wobble in his voice. “We all do.”

Uriel was silent, turning back toward Zodiel. They tucked a strand of black hair behind the angel’s ear, smiling wistfully. “I’ll need some time alone with her,” the archangel declared. 

“Of course.”

Aziraphale and Crowley made their way toward the door.

“ _ Alone _ ,” Uriel repeated pointedly, looking at Valen.

“Right.” Without thinking, Aziraphale scooped up the ferret, intending to carry him from the room. But the scrabble of sharp claws and the too-fast beating of a little heart against his hand made him let go, subtly letting Valen scramble down his shirt front and pants, darting unseen under the bed as Aziraphale closed the door behind them. 


End file.
